The  Spirit  of 
French  Letters 


Mabell  S.C.Smith 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

WILLIAM  A.  NITZE 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   .    BOSTON  •    CHICAGO 
DALLAS   •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON    •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


THE 


SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH 
LETTERS 


BY 
MABELL  S.  C.  SMITH 


Nefo  fforfc 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1912 

AB  rights  restrvid 


COPYRIGHT,  1912, 
BY   THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  September, 


Xortaooti  $rr8B : 
Berwick  &  Smith  Co.,  Norwood,  Masi.,  U.S.A. 


TO 

E.  M.  S. 
With  loving  admiration 


PREFACE 

THE  purpose  of  this  book  is  to  give  such  a  survey  of  French 
letters  as  will  show  their  connection  with  the  conditions — 
political  and  economic — of  each  period  which  produced  them. 
This  brief  survey  is  supplemented  by  translated  extracts  of 
outstanding  examples,  the  choice  sometimes  being  made  to 
illustrate  the  author's  reflection  of  the  times  and  sometimes 
to  exhibit  his  spirit  or  his  workmanship. 

Acknowledgment  is  made  gratefully  to  publishers  who 
have  given  courteous  permission  for  reprinting,  and  to  friends 
who  have  offered  helpful  criticisms  and  made  translations. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THROUGH  THE  WINTER  DAYS  AND  AFTER  i 

II.  IN  LYRIC  MOOD 14 

III.  STIRRINGS  or  DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  GREAT  AWAKENING  39 

IV.  WHEN  THE  PRINTING  PRESS  CAME           ....  63 
V.  THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS — THE  SIXTEENTH    .        .  85 

VI.    THE  GREAT  CENTURY — THE  SEVENTEENTH      .        .        .124 

VII.    DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES 188 

VTII.    THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION — THE  EIGHTEENTH  .     226 

IX.    THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS — THE  NINETEENTH          .     278 

X.    TODAY 366 

INDEX 369 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 
CHAPTER  I 

THROUGH  THE  WINTER  DAYS  AND  AFTER 

WHEN  Caesar  set  forth  to  Gaul  in  58  B.  c.  to  take  posses- 
sion of  his  proconsulate,  he  was  by  no  means  ignorant  of  the 
mettle  of  the  people  who  had  more  than  once  come  south- 
ward over  the  mountains  and  wrought  destruction  even  upon 
Rome  itself.  Of  their  courage  and  hardihood  and  love  of 
liberty  he  gained  a  personal  knowledge  during  the  nine  years 
before  he  made  their  final  conquest;  of  their  ways  of  living, 
their  customs,  their  beliefs  he  learned  with  the  interest  of  the 
explorer  and  of  the  conqueror;  and  to  the  advantage  of  pos- 
terity he  wrote  down  all  that  he  did  and  all  that  he  learned 
for  seven  years  in  the  Commentaries  which  are  our  first  record 
of  Gallic  history. 

He  found  the  people  speaking  Celtic.  During  the  suc- 
ceeding four  hundred  years  of  Roman  occupation  the  Gauls 
came  to  use  that  mixture  of  classical  Latin  and  the  speech 
of  the  common  people  which  was  the  language  of  the  later 
Roman  Empire,  and  which  is  known  as  Low  or  Vulgar  Latin. 

With  the  fifth  century  came  the  dramatic  outpouring  of 
the  Franks  across  the  face  of  northern  Europe.  Like  other 
peoples  whose  energy  expresses  itself  in  action  these  Teutons 
limited  their  conquest  to  the  physical  and  made  no  effort  to 
impose  their  language  on  the  conquered.  In  the  course  of 
the  next  five  hundred  years,  however,  Low  Latin  was  more 
and  more  superseded  by  a  popular  language  which  was  called 


2  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Romance,  and,  since  it  differed  as  much  from  the  invaders' 
German  as  from  the  tongue  of  its  origin,  was  the  real  an- 
cestor of  the  French  language  of  to-day.  Of  this  Romance 
language  an  example  remains  in  the  oath  by  which  Louis 
the  German,  a  grandson  of  Charlemagne,  pledged  himself  to 
support  his  brother  Charles  against  his  brother  Lothair. 
The  oath  was  sworn  at  Strasburg  in  the  presence  of  the 
armies  of  Louis  and  of  Charles  in  March,  842. 

Its  Romance  form,  of  great  interest  to  students  of  the 
growth  of  language,  is  neither  Latin  nor  French,  yet  shows 
traces  of  both.  It  stands: 

Pro  Deo  amur  et  pro  Christian  poblo  et  nostro  commun  salvament, 
d'ist  di  in  avant,  in  quant  Deus  savir  et  podir  me  dunat,  si  salvarai  eo 
cist  meon  fradre  Karlo  et  in  adjudha  et  in  cadhuna  cosa,  si  cum  om  per 
dreit  son  fradra  salvar  dift,  in  o  quid  il  mi  altresi  fazet,  et  ab  Ludher 
nul  plaid  nunquam  prindrai,  qui  meon  vol  cist  meon  fradre  Karlo  in 
damno  sit. 

In  translation  the  oath  runs: 

For  the  love  of  God  and  for  the  common  salvation  of  the  Christian 
people  and  ourselves,  from  this  day  on,  in  so  far  as  God  grants  me  to 
know  and  to  be  able,  I  shall  support  this  my  brother  Charles,  both  by 
aid  and  in  all  else  as  one  ought  by  right  to  support  his  brother,  provided 
he  shall  do  the  same  for  me,  and  I  shall  never  enter  into  a  bond  with 
Lothair  which,  of  my  will,  shall  be  a  harm  to  Charles. 

The  Romance  language  had  many  dialects.  Spain  and 
Italy  made  their  impress  upon  it,  and,  within  the  boundaries 
of  France,  there  were  as  many  differences  as  there  were  large 
sections  separated  from  each  other  by  hill  and  morass,  and 
by  many  a  mile  to  be  travelled  wearily  in  those  days.  These 
French  dialects,  however,  submit  to  a  rough  grouping,  for 
those  which  belong  south  of  the  river  Loire  used  "oc"  for 
"oui"  ("yes"),  and  those  north  of  that  dividing  stream  em- 
ployed "  oil "  for  "  oui,''  and  so  the  language  of  the  south  came 
to  be  called  the  Langue  d'oc  (Tongue  of  oc)  while  that  of  the 


THROUGH  THE  WINTER  DAYS  AND  AFTER  3 

north  was  called  the  Langue  d'oil.  By  the  end  of  the  twelfth 
century  it  was  clear  that  the  northern  dialect  spoken  in  the 
lie  de  France — the  district  around  Paris — was  destined  to 
be  the  French  of  the  future. 

Yet  the  alchemy  of  speech  was  to  work  many  variations 
before  the  language  crystallized  into  anything  like  the  form 
it  wears  to-day.  Romance  was  in  a  state  of  constant  flux. 
When  the  twelfth  century  began,  certain  changes  seem  to 
have  fixed  themselves  in  the  tongue  so  definitely  that  it  may 
be  considered  to  have  passed  into  a  new  stage.  This  stage  is 
called  Old  French.  After  three  centuries  more  another  era 
had  become  sufficiently  marked  for  students  to  consider  the 
fifteenth  century  as  the  beginning  of  the  use  of  Modern 
French. 

The  early  invaders  from  the  north,  a  youthful  race,  press- 
ing south  and  west  in  a  mad  and  joyous  fury,  brought  to  their 
advance  the  destructiveness  of  the  young.  Where  the 
Romans  had  built  roads  and  cities,  palaces  and  public  utili- 
ties, there  the  barbarians  found  the  chosen  outlet  for  their 
cruel  energy.  A  lust  of  destruction  was  on  them.  Towns 
equipped  for  such  fair  living  as  that  period  knew  were 
stormed  and  captured,  churches  were  burned,  aqueducts 
broken,  rivers  and  harbors  made  unnavigable,  commerce 
killed.  Even  in  the  comparative  calm  that  followed  the 
first  onslaught  there  was  everywhere  the  seething  unrest  of 
a  life  where  every  man  was  on  the  alert  to  defend  his  own 
possessions,  and  there  was  no  understanding  of  unity  and  of 
what  unity  might  accomplish.  Chiefs  won  to  power  by 
murder,  and  the  law  of  violence  allowed  no  law  of  justice. 

In  the  eighth  century  the  Saracens  crossed  the  Pyrenees 
and  brought  new  destruction  until  the  mighty  battle  hammer 
of  Charles  Martel  beat  them  down  on  the  field  of  Tours. 

Charlemagne  (768),  grandson  of  the  hammer  wielder, 
dreamed  of  a  splendid  empire  and  of  a  united  people,  and  he 


4  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

did  his  best  to  bring  peace  by  the  sword  and  to  convert  to 
Christianity  by  bloodshed  and  by  bribes.  His  methods  were 
those  of  his  time;  his  ideas  ran  far  ahead  of  it.  After  his 
death  his  domain  fell  apart,  such  centralization  as  he  had 
brought  about  giving  way  to  feudalism  which  was  based  on 
landholding  conditions  Roman  in  origin,  combined  with  the 
Teutonic  military  democracy  that  granted  power  to  the 
many  provided  they  were  strong  enough  to  win  it  and  to 
keep  it.  The  Strasburg  oath  in  which  Charlemagne's 
grandson  Louis  swore  to  support  his  brother  Charles  was 
the  forerunner  of  a  treaty  by  which  the  great  king's  empire 
was  divided,  Louis  taking  Germany,  Charles  France,  and 
Lothair  Italy.  France  was  far  from  being  a  political  unit 
and  though  Charles  had  a  royal  title  he  had  little  more  power 
than  any  one  of  the  twenty-eight  dukes  and  counts  who  were 
his  vassals  in  name,  but  who  governed  their  sections  of  the 
country  despotically  and  with  small  reference  to  his  wishes. 

Some  forty  years  later  the  crowns  of  Germany,  France, 
and  Italy  were  united  again  when  Charles  the  Fat  came  to 
the  throne,  but  France  itself  was  always  more  and  more 
subdivided.  Into  this  group  of  separate  feudal  states  dashed 
Rollo  the  Northman  (in  885)  and  once  more  the  land  was 
burned  and  harried  and  its  people  given  over  to  slaughter. 
Paris  itself  was  besieged  for  a  year  and  a  half,  though  it 
stood  unfallen,  and  was  ready,  a  little  later  when  the  North- 
men had  become  useful  settlers  in  the  land  of  their  invasion, 
to  contend  for  supremacy  with  Laon,  the  capital  of  the 
Carlovingians,  the  Kings  descended  from  Charlemagne. 
Paris  and  the  feudal  lords  conquered  when  (in  987)  Hugh 
Capet,  Count  of  Paris,  was  chosen  King.  With  him  began 
the  real  Kingdom  of  France,  though  "France"  still  meant 
only  a  small  district  around  Paris  plus  the  fidelity  of  a  very 
few  important  vassals. 

Of  cruel  temper  were  these  centuries  from  the  fifth  to  the 


THROUGH  THE  WINTER  DAYS  AND  AFTER     5 

tenth,  yet  considered  in  their  relation  to  the  centuries  that 
followed,  they  may  be  likened  to  the  winter  time,  when 
nature  is  conserving  her  forces  for  the  work  of  the  spring  and 
the  summer  and  the  autumn — for  germination  and  blossom- 
ing and  fruitage. 

"O,  wind, 
If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind?  " 

Piercing  the  gloom  of  the  winter  days  was  an  occasional 
ray  of  light.  In  the  monasteries  glimmered  a  spark  of  the 
old  tradition  and  a  knowledge  of  ancient  tongues  which,  like 
the  never-extinguished  flame  of  the  Vestal  Virgins,  kept  alive 
from  ancient  days  the  continuity  of  literature.*  Charlemagne, 
illiterate,  intelligent,  constructive,  built  as  vigorously  as  he 
fought,  and  esteemed  letters  and  men  of  learning  with  the 
admiration  of  the  sagacious  unlearned.  In  the  marauders 
themselves,  Franks  and  Normans,  was  a  curiosity,  irresponsi- 
ble, vigorous  and  charged  with  a  savage  good-temper  when 
unthwarted,  that  proved  fuel  for  a  new  literary  blaze  when 
the  fury  of  destroying  had  exhausted  itself.  Of  increasing 
strength,  too,  was  the  religious  influence  that  converted  the 
barbarians  to  the  belief  of  the  people  among  whom  they  were 
settling — the  influence  that  was  to  sweep  them  with  the  rest 
of  Europe  into  the  Crusades,  with  all  that  they  meant  of  the 
instruction  that  comes  from  contact  with  a  past  of  abundant 
richness. 

Though  the  stormy  advent  of  the  Teutons  made  almost 
no  impression  on  the  language  of  the  country  they  invaded, 
yet  some  of  their  customs  caught  the  fancy  of  the  people 
with  whom  they  fought  and  among  whom  they  lived.  One 
habit  which  pleased  the  western  folk  was  their  singing  of 
tumultuous  songs  which  cheered  the  onrushing  troops  or 
made  them  forget  their  weariness  around  the  campfire,  with 
chanted  tales  of  the  valorous  deeds  of  mythical  heroes  and  of 

•  See  selection  from  Guizot  in  Chapter  IX. 


6  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

actual  warriors.  The  French  began  to  compose  something 
like  this  epic  poetry  in  the  short  popular  songs  which  they 
called  Cantilenes.  The  oldest  existing  bit  of  verse  of  this 
sort  is  also  the  oldest  remaining  poem  in  the  Langue  d'oil. 
It  is  attributed  to  about  the  year  880,  and  is  called 

CANTILENE  OF  ST.  EULALIE* 

Eulalie  was  a  young  and  virgin  maid 

Her  body  lovely,  soul  more  lovely  still. 

To  conquer  her  the  foes  of  God  essayed 

And  strove  to  make  her  serve  their  evil  will; 

But  to  these  counsels  bad  she  gave  no  heed, 

To  forsake  God  who  dwells  in  Heaven  on  high, 

No  dresses  fine  nor  gold  nor  silver  meed 

Nor  prayer  nor  threat  of  king  could  make  comply 

This  child,  with  their  demands  the  service  to  forsake 

Of  God  who  reigns  o'er  all  the  earth  and  sky. 

Before  Maximian  Eulalie  did  they  take, 

King  of  the  Pagans,  who  did  sternly  try 

To  force  her  to  renounce  the  Christian  name; 

But  ere  do  this  she  willingly  would  die, 

And  rather  than  give  up  her  virgin  fame, 

She  tortures  did  endure  right  willingly, 

And  thus  an  honest  death  she  soon  did  win. 

They  cast  her  in  a  great  and  blazing  fire, 

Yet  burned  she  not  for  she  was  free  from  sin: 

This  marvel  nowise  slaked  the  pagan's  ire 

Who  for  a  keen-edged  sword  did  quickly  call 

And  smote  her  head  off.     She  no  plaint  did  say; 

Since  Christ  so  willed  feared  she  not  death  at  all 

And  like  a  dove  to  Heaven  she  winged  her  way. 

We  beg  that  she  for  us  will  deign  to  pray 

That  when  we  die,  through  Christ's  great  clemency 

Our  souls  to  him  likewise  may  take  their  way. 

From  songs  like  this,  appealing  to  the  popular  ear  and 
readily  memorized,  the  Chansons  de  Geste  (Songs  of  Action) 
were  an  easy  development.  Beginning  with  some  burst  of 

•  Translated  by  J.  Ravenel  Smith 


THROUGH  THE  WINTER  DAYS  AND  AFTER  7 

description  or  of  praise  sung  by  accredited  bards  in  times  of 
war,  they  grew,  generation  by  generation,  to  be  of  a  length 
suitable  only  to  be  sung  at  the  fireside  when  the  audience 
had  plenty  of  time  to  listen.  The  singer,  too,  changed  with 
the  centuries.  At  first  he  was  the  minstrel-warrior  who 
shouted  his  song  as  he  charged  with  his  brother  fighters. 
Such  a  leader  was  Taillefer  who  is  described  by  the  chronicler 
Wace  as  advancing  against  the  English  at  the  battle  of  Hast- 
ings (1066)  which  won  England  for  William  of  Normandy. 

Taillefer,  who  sang  very  well, 
On  a  horse  that  ran  swiftly, 
Went  before  the  duke  singing 
Of  Charlemagne  and  of  Roland, 
Of  Oliver  and  of  the  vassals 
Who  died  at  Roncesvalles. 

In  the  north  the  poets  were  called  trouveres,  in  the  south, 
troubadours.  Often  they  were  of  noble  birth.  As  the  life  of 
the  people  altered,  however,  from  that  of  rovers  in  the  open 
to  that  of  town-  and  castle-dwellers  the  man  of  martial  deeds 
and  song  of  the  early  days  became  the  wandering  musician 
dependent  upon  the  whims  of  some  baron.  In  his  hall  he 
spent  the  long  summer  months,  each  evening  adding  a  new 
chapter  to  the  adventures  of  his  hero,  and,  in  later  days  when 
his  occupation  had  fallen  into  disrepute,  injecting  variety 
into  his  entertainment  by  feats  of  jugglery. 

Under  three  general  heads  come  the  subjects  of  the  trou- 
vere's  mercilessly  long  chansons:  tales  of  Charlemagne  and 
his  paladins,  in  which  there  was  some  seed  of  historic  truth, 
since  the  great  king's  day  was  not  so  long  gone  by  that  fact 
had  turned  to  fable  in  the  telling;  tales  of  Arthur  and  the 
Knights  of  the  Round  Table,  based  on  the  Welsh  and  Breton 
legends  which  have  given  inspiration  to  poets  from  Chrestien 
de  Troyes  to  Tennyson;  and  tales  presenting  in  new  form  the 
traditions  of  Greece  and  Rome  which  had  persisted  through 


8  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

changes  of  language  and  of  racial  thought  into  a  time  and 
among  a  people  of  far  different  spirit.  Enraptured  by  these 
popular  themes  all  western  Europe  from  the  eleventh  to  the 
fourteenth  centuries  came  under  the  spell  of  the  Chanson  de 
Geste  as  France  sang  it  and  heard  it.  France  led  the  literary 
world. 

Of  the  many  poems  of  action  of  these  vigorous  years  the 
best  beloved  was  the  Song  of  Roland,  built  up  in  the  eleventh 
century  to  a  length  of  4^»D  lines  and  attributed  to  one 
TUROLDUS.  It  is  this  song,  though  undoubtedly  a  short 
version  or  an  extract,  that  Taillefer  sang  at  Hastings,  cheer- 
ing on  the  Normans  to  equal  the  valor  of  the  mightiest  hero 
of  their  land.  The  first  section  tells  of  the  embassy  sent  to 
Charlemagne  by  the  Saracen,  Marsile,  who  holds  Saragossa, 
the  only  town  unconquered  by  the  emperor  at  the  end  of 
seven  years  of  warfare  in  Spain.  Charlemagne  knows  that 
his  men  are  eager  to  return  home  and  he  decides  to  accept 
the  proposals  looking  toward  peace,  although  his  nephew, 
Roland,  urges  him  to  refuse  them.  Roland  brings  on  himself 
the  enmity  of  his  step-father,  Ganelon,  by  suggesting  that  he 
undertake  the  return  embassy,  which  is  considered  danger- 
ous. Ganelon  arranges  with  Marsile  the  betrayal  of  Charle- 
magne and  induces  the  emperor  to  withdraw  from  the  country. 

He  departs,  according  to  the  account  of  the  second  section, 
leaving  Roland  in  command  of  the  rearguard,  and  with  him 
his  dear  friend  Oliver,  to  whose  sister,  Aude,  he  is  betrothed, 
and  Turpin,  the  Archbishop. 

As  Roland  and  his  men  march  through  the  Pass  of  Ron- 
cesvalles  the  blare  of  the  Moorish  clarions  is  borne  to  them 
on  the  wind. 

*  Says  Olivier: 

"Rolland,  companion,  hearken!    Soon,  methinks, 
"We  shall  have  battle  with  the  Saracens!" 

•  Reprinted  by  permission  from  Chanson  de  Roland;  translated  by  Leonce  Rabillon. 
Copyright,  1885,  by  Henry  Holt  and  Company.  r~^^>''~ 


THROUGH  THE  WINTER  DAYS  AND  AFTER  9 

To  which  Rolland:  "God  grant  it  may  be  so. 

"Here  must  we  do  our  duty  to  our  King; 

"A  man  should  for  his  Lord  and  for  his  cause 

"Distress  endure,  and  bear  great  heat  and  cold, 

"Lose  all,  even  to  his  very  hair  and  skin! 

"  'Tis  each  man's  part  to  strike  with  mighty  blows, 

"That  evil  songs  of  us  may  ne'er  be  sung. 

"The  wrong  cause  have  the  Pagans,  we  the  right. 

"No  ill  example  e'er  shall  come  from  me." 

Aoi. 

Count  Olivier  is  posted  on  a  hill 

From  whence  Spain's  Kingdom  he  descries,  and  all 

The  swarming  host  of  Saracens;  their  helms 

So  bright  bedecked  with  gold,  and  their  great  shields, 

Their  'broidered  hauberks,  and  their  waving  flags, 

He  cannot  count  the  squadrons;  in  such  crowds 

They  come,  his  sight  reached  not  unto  their  end. 

Then  all  bewildered  he  descends  the  hill, 

Rejoins  the  French,  and  all  to  them  relates. 

Aoi. 

Olivier  said:  "So  strong  the  Pagan  host; 
"Our  French,  methinks,  in  number  are  too  few; 
"Companion  Rolland,  sound  your  horn,  that  Carle 
"May  hear  and  send  his  army  back  to  help." 
Rolland  replies: — "Great  folly  would  be  mine, 
"And  all  my  glory  in  sweet  France  be  lost. 
"No,  I  shall  strike  great  blows  with  Durendal; 
"To  the  golden  hilt  the  blade  shall  reek  with  blood. 
"In  evil  hour  the  felon  Pagans  came 
"Unto  the  Pass,  for  all  are  doomed  to  die!" 

Aoi. 

The  Archbishop  blesses  the  French,  and  they  plunge  into 
awful  hand-to-hand  combat  with  valiant  foes  who  outnumber 
them  many  hundred  times.  In  four  charges  the  French  were 
victorious;  in  the  fifth  they  met  a  cruel  fate.  With  almost  all 
of  his  companions  lying  slain  about  him  Roland  decides  at 
last  to  sound  his  horn. 


10  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Rolland  says: — "I  will  blow  mine  olifant, 
"And  Carle  will  hear  it  from  the  pass.    I  pledge 
"My  word  the  French  at  once  retrace  their  steps." 
Said  Olivier: — "This  a  great  shame  would  be, 
"One  which  to  all  your  kindred  would  bequeathe 
"A  lifetime's  stain.    When  this  I  asked  of  you, 
"You  answered  nay,  and  would  do  naught.    Well,  now 
"With  my  consent  you  shall  not; — if  you  blow 
"Your  horn,  of  valor  true  you  show  no  proof. 
"Already,  both  your  arms  are  drenched  with  blood." 
Responds  the  Count: — "These  arms  have  nobly  struck." 

Aoi. 

The  Archbishop  heard  their  strife.    In  haste  he  drives 

Into  his  horse  his  spurs  of  purest  gold, 

And  quick  beside  them  rides.    Then  chiding  them, 

Says: — "Sire  Rolland,  and  you,  Sire  Olivier, 

"In  God's  name  be  no  feud  between  you  two; 

"No  more  your  horn  shall  save  us;  nathless  'twere 

"Far  better  Carle  should  come  and  soon  avenge 

"Our  deaths.    So  joyous  then  these  Spanish  foes 

"Would  not  return.    But  as  our  Franks  alight, 

"  Find  us  or  slain  or  mangled  on  the  field, 

"They  will  our  bodies  on  their  chargers'  backs 

"Lift  in  their  shrouds  with  grief  and  pity,  all 

"In  tears,  and  bury  us  in  holy  ground: 

"And  neither  wolves,  nor  swine,  nor  curs  shall  feed 

"On  us — "  Replies  Rolland: — "Well  have  you  said." 

The  Count  Rolland  in  his  great  anguish  blows 

His  olifant  so  mightily,  with  such 

Despairing  agony,  his  mouth  pours  forth 

The  crimson  blood,  and  his  swoll'n  temples  burst. 

Yea,  but  so  far  the  ringing  blast  resounds; 

Carle  hears  it,  marching  through  the  pass,  Naimes  harks, 

The  French  all  listen  with  attentive  ear. 

"That  is  Rolland's  horn!  "  Carle  cried,  "which  ne'er  yet 

"Was,  save  in  battle,  blown! — " 

Charlemagne  gives  orders  for  a  return  and  rescue.    Mean- 
while the  fight  continues.     Oliver,  wounded  unto  death, 


THROUGH  THE  WINTER  DAYS  AND  AFTER          n 

mistakes  his  friend  for  one  of  the  enemy  and  strikes  a  blow 
that  cleaves  his  crest,  yet  Roland  pardons  him  and  swoons 
with  grief  as  Oliver  lies  dead  before  him.  Recovering  and 
fighting  on  Roland  blows  another  blast. 

As  hero  fights  the  Count  Rolland;  but  all 

His  body  burns  with  heat  and  drips  with  sweat; 

His  head  is  torn  by  pain;  his  temple  burst 

By  that  strong  blast  he  gave  the  olifant. 

Still  would  he  know  if  Carle  returns;  once  more 

He  blows  his  horn — Alas,  with  feeble  blast. 

Carle  caught  the  distant  sound,  and,  list'ning,  waits: 

"Seigneurs,"  cried  he,  "great  evils  fall  apace; 

"I  hear  his  dying  blast  upon  his  horn. 

"  If  we  would  find  him  yet  alive,  we  need 

"Urge  on  our  steeds.    Let  all  our  trumpets  blow!" 

Then  sixty  thousand  trumps  rang  forth  their  peals; 

The  hills  reecho,  and  the  vales  respond. 

The  Pagans  hear — and  stay  their  gabbling  mirth. 

One  to  the  other  says: — "  'Tis  Carle  who  comes!" 

Aoi. 

Roland's  horse  is  killed  under  him  and  Turpin  is  wounded. 
The  Count  gathers  the  bodies  of  his  comrades  around  the 
Archbishop  who  gives  them  his  benediction  before  joining 
them  in  the  world  beyond.  While  himself  awaiting  the  ap- 
proach of  death  Roland  is  attacked  by  a  Saracen  who  tries 
to  take  from  him  his  sword,  Durendal.  With  desperate 
strength  the  dying  knight  fells  the  robber  with  his  horn,  and 
then  makes  a  determined  effort  to  break  his  weapon  that  it 
may  fall  into  no  other  hands. 

Now  feels  Rolland  that  death  is  near  at  hand 

And  struggles  up  with  all  his  force;  his  face 

Grows  livid; — [Durendal,  his  naked  sword] 

He  holds; — beside  him  rises  a  grey  rock 

On  which  he  strikes  ten  mighty  blows  through  grief 

And  rage — The  steel  but  grinds;  it  breaks  not,  nor 

Is  notched;  then  cries  the  Count: — "Saint  Mary,  help! 

"O  Durendal!    Good  sword!  ill  starred  art  thou! 


12  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

"Though  we  two  part,  I  care  not  less  for  thee. 

"What  victories  together  thou  and  I, 

"Have  gained,  what  kingdoms  conquered,  which  now  holds 

"White-bearded  Carle!    No  coward's  hand  shall  grasp 

"Thy  hilt:  a  valiant  knight  has  borne  thee  long, 

"Such  as  none  shall  e'er  bear  in  France  the  Free!" 

Aoi. 

Rolland  smites  hard  the  rock  of  Sardonix; 
The  steel  but  grinds,  it  breaks  not,  nor  grows  blunt; 
Then  seeing  that  he  cannot  break  his  sword, 
Thus  to  himself  he  mourns  for  Durendal: 
"O  good  my  sword,  how  bright  and  pure!    Against 
"The  sun  what  flashing  light  thy  blade  reflects! 
"When  Carle  passed  through  the  valley  of  Moriane, 
"The  God  of  Heaven  by  his  Angel  sent 
"  Command  that  he  should  give  thee  to  a  Count, 
"A  valiant  captain;  it  was  then  the  great 
"And  gentle  King  did  gird  thee  to  my  side. — " 

Upon  the  grey  rock  mightily  he  smites, 

Shattering  it  more  than  I  can  tell;  the  sword 

But  grinds. — It  breaks  not — nor  receives  a  notch, 

And  upwards  springs  more  dazzling  in  the  air. 

When  sees  the  Count  Rolland  his  sword  can  never  break, 

Softly  within  himself  its  fate  he  mourns: 

"O  Durendal,  how  fair  and  holy  thou! 

"In  thy  gold-hilt  are  relics  rare;  a  tooth 

"Of  great  Saint  Pierre — some  blood  of  Saint  Basile, 

"A  lock  of  hair  of  Monseigneur  Saint  Denis, 

"A  fragment  of  the  robe  of  Sainte-Marie. 

"It  is  not  right  that  Pagans  should  own  thee; 

"By  Christian  hand  alone  be  held.    Vast  realms 

"I  shall  have  conquered  once  that  now  are  ruled 

"By  Carle,  the  King  with  beard  all  blossom-white, 

"And  by  them  made  great  emperor  and  Lord. 

"May  thou  ne'er  fall  into  a  cowardly  hand." 

Aoi. 

The  Count  Rolland  feels  through  his  limbs  the  grasp 

Of  death,  and  from  his  head  ev'n  to  his  heart 

A  mortal  chill  descends.    Unto  a  pine 

He  hastens,  and  falls  stretched  upon  the  grass. 


THROUGH  THE  WINTER  DAYS  AND  AFTER          13 

Beneath  him  lie  his  sword  and  olifant, 

And  toward  the  Heathen  land  he  turns  his  head, 

That  Carle  and  all  his  knightly  host  may  say: 

"The  gentle  Count  a  conqueror  has  died.     .     .     ." 

Then  asking  pardon  for  his  sins,  or  great 

Or  small,  he  offers  up  his  glove  to  God. 

With  the  death  of  the  hero  the  third  section  ends.  The 
fourth  tells  of  Charlemagne's  return  to  find  his  rearguard 
utterly  destroyed.  In  a  fearful  battle  he  takes  vengeance 
upon  the  foe,  and  storms  Saragossa.  Then  he  turns  once 
more  toward  France. 

From  Spain  at  last  the  Emperor  has  returned 

To  Aix,  the  noblest  seat  of  France;  ascends 

His  palace,  enters  in  the  stately  hall, — 

Now  comes  to  greet  him  the  fair  [lady]  Aude, 

And  asks  the  King: — "Where  is  Rolland  the  chief 

"Who  pledged  his  faith  to  take  me  for  his  wife?" 

Sore-pained,  heart-broken,  Carle,  with  weeping  eyes, 

Tears  his  white  beard. — "Ah!  sister  well  beloved, 

"Thou  askest  me  of  one  who  is  no  more. 

"A  worthier  match  I  give  thee  in  exchange; 

"Loewis  it  is.    I  cannot  better  say. 

"He  is  my  son,  and  will  protect  my  realms."^ 

Aude  answers: — "To  my  ear  these  words  are  strange. 

"May  God,  His  saints,  His  angels,  all  forfend 

"That,  if  Rolland  lives  not,  I  still  should  live." 

Her  color  fades,  she  falls  prone  at  the  feet 

Of  Charlemagne — dead     .     .     .     God's  mercy  on  her  soul! 

Barons  of  France  mourn  her  with  pitying  tears. 

Aoi. 

How  Ganelon  the  traitor  was  captured,  tried,  and  punished 
is  the  theme  of  the  fifth  section  that  ends  the  Song  of  Roland. 

Dignified  and  beautiful  in  expression,  charged  with  an 
elevated  spirit  of  enduring  courage  and  loyalty,  and  telling 
the  story  of  a  friendship  that  has  become  famous  in  history 
this  chanson  must  be  placed  not  among  historical  curiosities 
but  in  the  ranks  of  real  literature. 


CHAPTER  II 
IN  LYRIC  MOOD 

AT  the  same  time  that  legends  of  antiquity  and  long  ac- 
counts of  the  deeds  of  heroes  were  pleasing  a  people  whose 
standards  were  those  of  successful  fighting,  feudalism  was 
nursing  ideals  of  loyalty  and  devotion,  of  truth-telling  and 
of  respect  for  women,  which  were  applicable  to  everyday  life. 
Now  everyday  life  is  divided  into  twenty-four  hour  periods 
whose  active  part  is  shortened  by  some  seven  or  eight  hours 
of  slumberous  inactivity.  That  is,  living  is  a  succession  of 
experiences  of  the  waking  day,  a  succession  of  brief  experi- 
ences. In  correspondence  with  this  view  the  poetic  expres- 
sion of  everyday  life  is  not  sustained,  as  in  the  epic,  but  is 
brief,  and  thus  is  born  lyric  verse  to  give  utterance  to  a  cry 
of  affection,  a  shout  of  victory,  a  plea  for  courage,  a  declara- 
tion of  belief.  The  emotions  cannot  be  kept  at  a  high  tension 
for  a  long  time — the  song  must  be  sung  at  a  burst. 

The  joy  of  picturing  life  and  its  everyday  feelings  and  in- 
cidents in  lyric  verse  was  entered  upon  early  by  the  trouveres 
in  the  north  and  the  troubadours  in  the  south.  Perhaps  it 
was  a  reaction  from  the  suffering  and  dread  of  the  preceding 
years  that  made  the  poets  of  the  centuries  immediately 
following  that  time  of  welcome  surprise  tell  short  stories  of 
love  and  romance  and  compose  short  poems,  gay  or  sorrowful 
in  spirit,  concise  in  workmanship.  In  the  twelfth  century 
the  productions  of  the  north  and  the  south  are  distinguishable 
from  each  other  in  tone,  the  trouveres  composing  songs  of 
occupations — the  spinner's  song,  the  shepherd's  song — or 
romantic  tales  recited  to  amuse  the  workers  as  they  toiled, 

14 


IN  LYRIC  MOOD  15 

while  the  troubadours  showed  their  southern  ardor  in  those 
songs  of  love  which  bespoke  a  lady's  favor  or  argued  about 
the  quantity  and  the  quality  of  the  passion.  A  hundred  years 
later  the  Teutonic  and  the  Roman  strains  were  becoming 
united,  north  and  south  had  met  hi  the  Crusades,  and  com- 
mon interests  produced  a  more  uniform  verse. 

Not  alike,  however,  were  the  poets  themselves,  for  men 
of  all  classes  from  king  to  page,  burned  with  the  divine 
fire. 

Among  the  trouveres  THIBAUT  IV,  King  of  Navarre  (1201- 
12 53)>  wrote  with  precision  and  elegance  himself  and  gathered 
about  him  a  group  of  friends  of  like  tastes.  The  verses  below, 
composed  as  he  set  out  upon  a  crusade,  show  that  there  were 
drawbacks  even  to  war's  enthusiasms. 

*  Lady,  the  fates  command  and  I  must  go, — 

Leaving  the  pleasant  land  so  dear  to  me: 
Here  my  heart  suffered  many  a  heavy  woe; 

But  what  is  left  to  love,  thus  leaving  thee? 
Alas!  that  cruel  land  beyond  the  sea! 

Why  thus  dividing  many  a  faithful  heart, 
Never  again  from  pain  and  sorrow  free, 

Never  again  to  meet  when  thus  they  part? 

I  see  not,  when  thy  presence  bright  I  leave, 

How  wealth  or  joy  or  peace  can  be  my  lot; 
Ne'er  yet  my  spirit  found  such  cause  to  grieve 

As  now  in  leaving  thee;  and  if  thy  thought 
Of  me  in  absence  should  be  sorrow-fraught, 

Oft  will  my  heart  repentant  turn  to  thee, 
Dwelling  in  fruitless  wishes  on  this  spot, 

And  all  the  gracious  words  here  said  to  me. 

0  gracious  God,  to  thee  I  bend  my  knee, 
For  thy  sake  yielding  all  I  love  and  prize; 

And  0,  how  mighty  must  that  influence  be, 
That  steals  me  thus  from  all  my  cherished  joysl 
•  From  Longfellow's  "Poetry  of  Europe." 


i6 

Here,  ready,  then,  myself  surrendering, 
Prepared  to  serve  thee,  I  submit;  and  ne'er 

To  one  so  faithful  could  I  service  bring, 
So  kind  a  master,  so  beloved  and  dear. 

And  strong  my  ties,  my  grief  unspeakable! 

Grief,  all  my  choicest  treasures  to  resign; 
Yet  stronger  still  the  affections  that  impel 

My  heart  toward  Him,  the  God  whose  love  is  mine. 
That  holy  love,  how  beautiful!  how  strong! 

Even  wisdom's  favorite  sons  take  refuge  there; 
'Tis  the  redeeming  gem  that  shines  among 

Men's  darkest  thoughts, — for  ever  bright  and  fair. 

RAOTJL,  COMTE  DE  SOISSONS,  a  friend  of  Thibaut's,  wrote 
the  following  lines  when  he,  too,  probably,  was  about  to  bid 
farewell  to  the  lady  of  his  admiration : 

*  Ah !  beauteous  maid 

Of  form  so  fair! 
Pearl  of  the  world, 

Beloved  and  dear! 
How  does  my  spirit  eager  pine 
But  once  to  press  those  lips  of  thine! — 
Yes,  beauteous  maid, 

Of  form  so  fair! 
Pearl  of  the  world, 
Beloved  and  dear. 

And  if  the  theft 

Thine  ire  awake, 
A  hundred  fold 

I'd  give  it  back, — 
Thou  beauteous  maid, 

Of  form  so  fair! 
Pearl  of  the  world, 

Beloved  and  dear. 

ADAM  DE  LA  HALLE  (who  died  in  1286),  a  dramatist  as 
well  as  a  lyric  poet,  was  an  untitled  follower  of  Robert  II, 

•  From  Longfellow's  "  Poetry  of  Europe." 


IN  LYRIC  MOOD  17 

Count  of  Artois.  The  poem  quoted  here  is  a  variation  from 
his  usual  vein  of  happy  compliment.  As  he  wore  the  nick- 
name of  "The  Hunchback  of  Arras,"  he  probably  felt  toward 
it  the  mixed  emotions  that  he  records  in  his  song. 

FAREWELL  TO  ARRAS 
(Translated  by  Henry  Carrington.     Courtesy  of  the  Oxford  Press) 

Arras!  Arras!  town  full  of  strife, 
With  calumnies  and  hatred  rife; 
You  were  a  noble  town  of  yore; 
Your  fame,  'tis  said,  they  will  restore. 
But  unless  God  your  manners  mend, 
I  see  not  who'll  effect  this  end; 
Gambling  is  all  that  you  pursue, 
So,  fifty  thousand  times  adieu. 

Elsewhere  the  gospel  I  shall  find; 
I  leave  your  lying  tongues  behind. 

Love,  and  glad  life,  I  bid  farewell, 
Where  do  such  mirth  and  pleasure  dwell, 
As  save  in  Paradise  unknown 
To  me  you  have  some  profit  done; 
In  studying  once  you  made  me  slack, 
But  now  'tis  you  that  bring  me  back, 
'Tis  you  that  make  me  now  desire 
Honour  to  gain,  renown  acquire; 
For  rude  and  empty  was  my  mind, 
Discourteous,  base,  and  unrefined. 

My  tender  friend,  much  loved  and  dear, 
I  feel  and  show  but  little  cheer; 
Deeply  on  your  account  I  grieve, 
Whom  I  am  forced  behind  to  leave. 
You  will  be  treasurer  of  my  heart, 
Although  my  body  must  depart 
Learning  and  science  to  attain, 
And  be  more  worth,  so  you  shall  gain. 

In  the  south  the  large  groups  of  troubadours  included  the 
picturesque  figure  of  RICHARD  THE  LION  HEAKTED  (1157- 


l8  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

1199),  King  of  England  and  vassal  of  the  French  King  by 
virtue  of  his  holdings  in  France.  Richard  composed  spirited 
and  correct  verse  in  the  langue  d'oc,  far  better  than  that  of 
his  faithful  minstrel,  BLONDEL  DE  NESLE  (1193),  who,  the 
story  goes,  sang  his  way  through  Austria  until  an  answering 
voice  betrayed  the  prison  in  which  Richard  lay,  hidden  by 
his  enemies  and  forgotten  by  his  friends.  Here  is  the  King's 
lament  over  his  friends'  inactivity : 

*  Richard,  Coeur  de  Lion — in  prison 
No  captive  knight,  whom  chains  confine, 
Can  tell  his  fate  and  not  repine; 
Yet  with  a  song  he  cheers  the  gloom 
That  hangs  around  his  living  tomb. 
Shame  to  his  friends! — the  King  remains 
Two  years  unransomed  and  in  chains. 

Now  let  them  know,  my  brave  barons, 
English,  Normans,  and  Gascones 
Not  a  liege-man  so  poor  have  I 
That  I  would  not  his  freedom  buy, 
I  will  not  reproach  their  noble  line, 
But  chains  and  dungeon  still  are  mine. 

The  dead, — nor  friends  nor  kin  have  they  I 

Nor  friends  nor  kin  my  ransom  pay! 

My  wrongs  afflict  me, — yet  far  more 

For  faithless  friends  my  heart  is  sore. 

O,  what  a  blot  upon  their  name, 

If  I  should  perish  thus  in  shame! 

Nor  is  it  strange  I  suffer  pain, 

When  sacred  oaths  are  thus  made  vain, 

And  when  the  king  with  bloody  hands 

Spreads  war  and  pillage  thro'  my  lands, 

One  only  solace  now  remains, — 

I  soon  shall  burst  these  servile  chains. 

Ye  Troubadours  and  friends  of  mine, 
Brave  Chail,  and  noble  Pcnsauvine, 

•  From  Longfellow's  "  Poetry  of  Europe." 


IN  LYRIC  MOOD  19 

Go,  tell  my  rivals,  in  your  song, 

This  heart  hath  never  done  them  wrong. 

He  infamy — not  glory — gains, 

Who  strikes  a  monarch  in  his  chains. 

Less  humble  than  Blondel  both  in  birth  and  in  character 
was  BERTRAND  DE  BORN  (1150-1210),  an  intimate  friend  of 
Richard  and  the  lover  of  his  sister,  Eleanor.  De  Born  was 
a  tempestuous  spirit  and  a  versatile.  He  incited  Richard 
and  his  brothers  to  rebel  against  their  father,  Henry  II  of 
England,  yet  when  Henry  captured  him  he  won  his  release  by 
offering  the  audacious  argument  that  he  was  the  best  friend 
of  the  unfilial  sons.  He  was  fierce  in  love  and  hate  and  Dante 
gives  him  a  horrible  punishment  in  the  "Inferno,"  yet  his 
tastes  were  not  entirely  ungentle.  He  wrote  much  verse  and 
wrote  it  well  in  a  strong,  swinging  rhythm.  Here  are  some 
lines  in  which  his  frankness  declares  him  to  be  of  no  passive 
disposition. 

*  The  beautiful  spring  delights  me  well, 
When  flowers  and  leaves  are  growing; 

And  it  pleases  my  heart  to  hear  the  swell 
Of  the  birds'  sweet  chorus  flowing 
In  the  echoing  wood. 

And  I  love  to  see  all  scattered  around 

Pavilions,  tents,  on  the  martial  ground; 
And  my  spirit  finds  it  good 

To  see  on  the  level  plains  beyond, 

Gay  knights  and  steeds  caparisoned. 

It  pleases  me  when  the  lancers  bold 

Set  men  and  armies  flying; 
And  it  pleases  me,  too,  to  hear  around, 
The  voice  of  the  soldiers  crying; 

And  joy  is  mine, 

When  the  castles  strong,  besieged,  shake, 
And  walls  uprooted,  totter  and  crack; 
And  I  see  the  foemen  join, 

•  Translation  by  Edgar  Taylor. 


20  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

On  the  moated  shore  all  compassed  round 
With  the  palisade  and  guarded  mound. 

Lances  and  swords  and  stained  helms, 

And  shields,  dismantled  and  broken, 
On  the  verge  of  the  bloody  battle-scene, 

The  field  of  wrath  betoken; 

And  the  vassals  are  there, 

And  there  fly  the  steeds  of  the  dying  and  dead, 
And  where  the  mingled  strife  is  spread, 

The  noblest  warrior's  care 
Is  to  cleave  the  foeman's  limbs  and  head, — 
The  conqueror  less  of  the  living  than  dead. 

I  tell  you  that  nothing  my  soul  can  cheer, 

Or  banqueting  or  reposing, 
Like  the  onset  cry  of  "Charge  them!"  rung 

From  each  side  as  in  battle  closing, 

Where  the  horses  neigh, 
And  the  call  to  "Aid!"  is  echoing  loud; 
And  there  on  the  earth  the  lowly  and  proud 

In  the  fosse  together  lie. 
And  yonder  is  piled  the  mangled  heap 
Of  the  brave  that  scaled  the  trench's  steep. 

Barons,  your  castles  in  safety  place, 

Your  cities  and  villages  too, 
Before  ye  haste  to  the  battle-scenes! 

And,  Papiol,  quickly  go, 

And  tell  the  Lord  of  "Oc  and  No"  * 
That  peace  already  too  long  hath  been. 

Another  friend  of  Richard's,  and  a  less  harmful  adviser, 
was  PIERRE  VIDAL  (about  1215),  who  followed  the  Lion 
Heart  to  the  Holy  Land.  Vidal  was  a  nature  lover  as  well  as 
a  fighter.  He  sang: 

f  Of  all  sweet  birds  I  love  the  most 

The  lark  and  nightingale; 
For  they  the  first  of  all  awake, 

The  opening  spring  with  songs  to  hail. 

*  Richard  "  Yea  and  Nay,"  the  Lion  Hearted, 
t  From  Longfellow's  "Poetry  of  Europe." 


IN  LYRIC  MOOD  21 

And  I,  like  them,  when  silently 

Each  Troubadour  sleeps  on, 
Will  wake  me  up  and  sing  of  love 

And  thee,  Vierna,  fairest  one. 

The  rose  on  thee  its  bloom  bestowed, 

The  lily  gave  its  white, 
And  nature,  when  it  planned  thy  form, 

A  model  framed  of  fair  and  bright. 

For  nothing,  sure,  that  could  be  given, 

To  thee  hath  been  denied; 
That  there  each  thought  of  love  and  joy 

In  bright  perfection  might  reside. 

When  succeeding  crusades  were  fulfilling  the  debasing 
promise  of  the  Third,  which  Richard  led,  PEYROLS  (1145- 
1200),  a  southern  poet,  praised  the  earlier  days  and  the 
leaders  of  the  earlier  Holy  wars,  gone  like  "  the  snows  of 
y ester  year."  The  troubadour  says  in 

A  CRUSADER'S  SONG 

(Translated  by  T.  Roscoe) 
I  have  seen  the  Jordan  river, 

I  have  seen  the  holy  grave; 
Lord,  to  thee  my  thanks  I  render, 

For  the  joys  Thy  goodness  gave, 
Showing  to  my  raptured  sight 
Where  Thou  first  didst  see  the  light. 

Vessel  good,  and  favouring  breezes, 

Pilot  trusty,  soon  shall  we 
See  again  the  towers  of  Marseilles 

Rising  o'er  the  briny  sea. 
Farewell,  Acre!  farewell,  all 
Of  Temple  or  of  Hospital! 

Now,  alas!  the  world's  decaying! 

When  shall  we  again  behold 
Kings  like  lion-hearted  Richard, 

France's  monarch,  stout  and  bold, 
Montserrat's  good  Marquis,  or 
The  Empire's  glorious  Emperor? 


22  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Ah!  Lord  God,  if  You  believed  me 
You  would  pause  in  granting  powers 

Over  cities,  kingdoms,  empires, 
Over  castles,  towns,  and  towers, 

For  the  men  that  powerful  be 

Pay  the  least  regard  to  Thee! 

Possibly  because  he  shows  strongly  the  Italian  influence 
which  crept  over  the  border  and  into  the  music  of  the  trou- 
badours, ARNAUD  DANIEL  has  been  mentioned  as  the  leader 
among  the  Provencal  poets  by  no  less  authorities  than 
Petrarch  and  Dante  and  Ariosto.  Love  was  the  absorbing 
theme  of  the  poets  of  the  south,  the  love  that  expressed  itself 
in  the  Courts  of  Love,  and  in  the  lyrics  that  strove  for  honors 
in  the  Floral  Games  where  the  prize  winner  was  crowned 
with  flowers — and  the  prince  of  the  poets  of  love  was  Arnaud 
Daniel. 

*  When  leaves  and  flowers  are  newly  springing, 

And  trees  and  boughs  are  budding  all, 
In  every  grove  when  birds  are  singing, 
And  on  the  balmy  air  is  ringing 

The  march's  speckled  tenants'  call; 
Ah!  then  I  think  how  small  the  gain 

Love's  leaves  and  flowers  and  fruit  may  be, 
And  all  night  long  I  mourn  in  vain, 

Whilst  others  sleep,  from  sorrow  free. 

If  I  dare  tell! — if  sighs  could  move  her! 

How  my  heart  welcomes  every  smile! 
My  Fairest  Hope!  I  live  to  love  her, 

Yet  she  is  cold  or  coy  the  while, 
Go  thou  my  song,  and  thus  reprove  her. 

And  tell  her  Arnaud  breathes  alone 

To  call  so  bright  a  prize  his  own ! 

Belonging  like  Daniel  to  the  last  part  of  the  twelfth  century 
is  BERNARD  DE  VENTADOUR,  a  page  who  adopted  the  name 
of  the  family  whom  he  served.  His  songs  are  musical  and 

•  From  Longfellow's  "Poetry  of  Europe." 


IN  LYRIC  MOOD  23 

flowing  and  touched  with  the  poet's  sadness,  which  in  his 
case  was  not  assumed,  as  he  loved  in  vain  a  lady  of  high 
station. 

*  When  I  behold  the  lark  upspring 
To  meet  the  bright  sun  joyfully, 
How  he  forgets  to  poise  his  wing, 

In  his  gay  spirit's  revelry, — 
Alas!  that  mournful  thoughts  should  spring 

E'en  from  that  happy  songster's  glee! 
Strange,  that  such  gladdening  sight  should  bring 
Not  joy,  but  pining  care,  to  me! 

I  thought  my  heart  had  known  the  whole 

Of  love,  but  small  its  knowledge  proved; 
For  still  the  more  my  longing  soul 

Loves  on,  itself  the  while  unloved; 
She  stole  my  heart,  myself  she  stole, 

And  all  I  prized  from  me  removed; 
She  left  me  but  the  fierce  control 

Of  vain  desires  for  her  I  loved. 

All  self-command  is  now  gone  by, 

E'er  since  the  luckless  hour  when  she 
Became  a  mirror  to  my  eye, 

Whereon  I  gazed  complacently; 
Thou  fatal  mirror!  there  I  spy 

Love's  image;  and  my  doom  shall  be, 
Like  young  Narcissus,  thus  to  sigh, 

And  thus  expire,  beholding  thee! 

A  study  of  these  early  lyrics  is  especially  rewarding  in  the 
revelation  that  it  makes  of  the  early  appearance  in  Gallic 
letters  of  characteristics  which  are  peculiar  to  the  French 
to-day.  At  an  early  time  poets  were  talking  about  Love  and 
Power  and  Self-control  in  ways  that  foreshadowed  on  the  one 
hand,  the  metaphysical  discussions  of  abstract  principles, 
which  Frenchmen  thoroughly  enjoy,  and,  on  the  other,  the 
serious  mood  that  enriched  later  centuries  with  the  moral 
reflections  of  the  "meditative"  poets  and  essayists.  Against 

•  From  Longfellow's  "Poetry  of  Europe." 


24  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

this  sober  background  the  penetrating  wit  and  satire  which 
have  never  died  out  from  France  flash  and  dart  like  lightning 
shafts ;  against  it  beams  steadily  chivalrous  love  which  adored 
from  afar  and  which  to-day  takes  the  form  of  a  cult  of  the 
"beau  sexe";  against  it  plays  the  love  of  country  which  the 
crusades  fostered  by  bringing  strange  men  together  in  strange 
lands  where  home  seemed  precious  because  far  away. 

Modern  in  feeling,  too,  was  the  craftsmanship  that  always 
has  distinguished  the  Frenchman,  whether  artisan  or  artist. 
No  trouble  is  too  great,  no  time  too  long  to  spend  in  securing 
perfection.  That  is  why  French  literature,  though  not  so 
rich  in  eminent  names  as  is  the  roster  of  English  writers,  is 
more  even  in  its  mass  of  talent-showing  production. 

The  origin  of  the  different  verse  forms  which  marked  the 
early  lyrics  lay  in  the  different  purposes  for  which  they  were 
composed.  The  pastoral  song  must  not  be  confused  either 
in  sound  or  sense  with  the  rondeau  which  accompanied  a 
dance  or  the  serenade  that  soothed  a  lady's  slumbers.  The 
rhythm  of  a  new  dance  developed  a  new  metre  and  a  new 
arrangement  of  strophes.  The  poet  delighted  in  binding 
himself  by  rules  which  called  for  a  plan  of  ever  increasing 
intricacy.  The  ten-  or  twenty-fold  repetition  of  identical 
"assonances"  which  marked  the  early  epics  gave  way  to  a 
more  generous  variety  of  rhymes. 

Of  the  many  forms  devised  by  the  ingenuity  of  the  poet 
craftsmen  the  rondel  or  rondeau  was  one  of  the  earliest  and 
was  also  the  parent  of  several  variations.  One  of  these  was 
the  triolet.  Its  rules  are  simple  and  the  form  is  short  and  so 
will  serve  as  an  example  of  the  carefulness  with  which  these 
lyrics  were  constructed.  The  quotation  is  from  GUILLAUME 
DE  MACIIAULT  (about  1284-1369),  who  sang  of  love's  delights 
and  woes.  He  wrote  in  the  fourteenth  century,  but  as  the 
triolet  form  has  remained  unchanged  down  to  the  twentieth 
century  the  date  is  immaterial. 


IN  LYRIC  MOOD  25 

When  a  man  of  more  than  middle  age  Machault  became 
the  recipient  of  tender  attentions  from  the  young  Princess 
Agnes  of  Navarre,  who  wanted  her  name  to  go  down  the 
ages  linked  with  that  of  the  most  popular  poet  of  her  day. 
Machault  addressed  to  her  the  following 

TRIOLET 

White  as  a  lily,  as  a  rose,  red, 
Glowing  like  stones  of  the  East; 
Adoring  the  beauty  of  your  dear  head 
(White  as  a  lily,  as  a  rose,  red), 
I  am  so  ravished  my  heart  is  led 
To  serve  you  with  love's  richest  feast. 
White  as  a  lily,  as  a  rose,  red, 
Glowing  like  stones  of  the  East. 

It  takes  but  a  glance  to  analyze  this  little  poem.  There 
are  but  two  rhymes  which  are  stated  at  once  in  lines  one  and 
two.  Line  three  rhymes  with  one,  line  four  is  a  repetition, 
usually  verbatim,  of  one.  Line  five,  again,  rhymes  with  one, 
line  six  with  two,  seven  and  eight  repeat  one  and  two.  There 
is  but  the  one  stanza,  and  the  form  never  varies. 

The  ballade  was  another  form  which  gave  birth  to  varia- 
tions. From  it  developed  in  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth 
centuries  the  chant  royal,  a  long  poem  in  stilted  language. 
When  the  poem  was  composed  in  honor  of  the  Virgin  Mary 
it  was  shorter  and  was  called  a  serventois.  This  form  lacked 
the  refrain  which  marks  the  ballade  as  written  by  the  prince 
of  ballad  makers,  Villon.  He,  too,  belongs  to  a  period  later 
than  that  covered  by  this  chapter,  but  his  ballades  are  of  an 
excellence  which  compels  the  choice  of  an  illustration  to  be 
made  from  them.  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  translated  the 
famous 

BALLAD  OF  OLD-TIME  LADIES 

Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is 
Lady  Flora  the  lovely  Roman? 


26  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Where's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thais, 

Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman? 
Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man, 

Only  heard  on  river  and  mere, — 
She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human?     .     .     . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

Where's  H61oise,  the  learned  nun, 

For  whose  sake  Abeillard,  I  ween, 
Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on? 

(From  love  he  won  such  dule  and  teen !  ) 
And  where,  I  pray  you,  is  the  Queen, 

Who  willed  that  Buridan  should  steer 
Sewed  in  a  sack's  mouth  down  the  Seine?     .     .     . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

White  Queen  Blanche,  like  a  queen  of  lilies, 

With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden, — 
Bertha  Broadfoot,  Beatrice,  Alice, 

And  Ermengarde,  the  lady  of  Maine, 
And  that  good  Joan  whom  Englishmen 

At  Rouen  doomed  and  burned  her  there, — 
Mother  of  God,  where  are  they  then? 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

Nay,  never  ask  this  week,  fair  lord, 

Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year, 
Except  with  this  for  an  overword, — 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

Although  the  virelai  belongs  to  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth 
century,  it  must  be  mentioned  in  this  glance  at  special  forms. 
It  was  a  rustic  dance  song  and  was  made  up  of  a  succession 
of  the  shepherdess's  songs  called  bergerettes.  Froissart  light- 
ened his  more  serious  historical  labors  by  composing  this 

VIRELAI 

(From  Longfellow's  "Poetry  of  Europe") 
Too  long  it  seems  ere  I  shall  view 
The  maid  so  gentle,  fair,  and  true, 
Whom  loyally  I  love: 


IN  LYRIC  MOOD  27 

Ah!  for  her  sake,  where'er  I  rove, 
All  scenes  my  care  renew! 
I  have  not  seen  her, — ah,  how  long! 
Nor  heard  the  music  of  her  tongue; 
Though  in  her  sweet  and  lovely  mien 
Such  grace,  such  witchery  is  seen, 

Such  precious  virtues  shine: 
My  joy,  my  hope,  is  in  her  smile, 
And  I  must  suffer  pain  the  while, 

Where  once  all  bliss  was  mine, 
Too  long  it  seems! 

O  tell  her,  love! — the  truth  reveal, 
Say  that  no  lover  yet  could  feel 

Such  sad,  consuming  pain: 
While  banished  from  her  sight,  I  pine, 
And  still  this  wretched  life  is  mine, 

Till  I  return  again. 
She  must  believe  me,  for  I  find 
So  much  her  image  haunts  my  mind, 

So  dear  her  memory, 
That,  wheresoe'er  my  steps  I  bend, 
The  form  my  fondest  thoughts  attend 

Is  present  to  my  eye, 
Too  long  it  seems! 

Now  tears  my  weary  hours  employ, 
Regret  and  thoughts  of  sad  annoy, 

When  waking  or  in  sleep; 
For  hope  my  former  care  repaid, 
In  promises  at  parting  made, 

Which  happy  love  might  keep. 
O,  for  one  hour  my  truth  to  tell, 
To  speak  of  feelings  known  too  well, 

Of  hopes  too  vainly  dear! 
But  useless  are  my  anxious  sighs, 
Since  fortune  my  return  denies, 

And  keeps  me  lingering  here, 
Too  long  it  seems! 

Another  late  form,  originating  in  the  latter  half  of  the 


28  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

sixteenth  century  was  the  vilanelle,  an  imitation  of  the  rustic 
songs  of  earlier  days.    Du  Bellay  (1550)  wrote  a 

*HYMN  TO  THE  WINDS 

The  winds  are  invoked  by  the  winnowers  of  corn 

To  you,  troop  so  fleet, 

That  with  winged  wandering  feet 

Through  the  wide  world  pass, 
And  with  soft  murmuring 
Toss  the  green  shades  of  spring 

In  woods  and  grass, 
Lily  and  violet 
I  give,  and  blossoms  wet, 

Roses  and  dew; 
This  branch  of  blushing  roses, 
Whose  fresh  bud  uncloses, 

Wind-flowers  too. 
Ah,  winnow  with  sweet  breath, 
Winnow  the  holt  and  heath, 

Round  this  retreat; 
Where  all  the  golden  morn 
We  fan  the  gold  o'  the  corn, 

In  the  sun's  heat. 

The  sonnet,  never  widely  varied,  has  been  through  the 
centuries  a  favorite  form  for  the  expression  of  a  single  emo- 
tional idea.  Here  is  one  of  Ronsard's  (1524),  translated  by 
Robert,  Earl  of  Lytton. 

Here  is  the  wood  that  freshened  to  her  song; 

See  here,  the  flowers  that  keep  her  footprints  yet; 

Where,  all  alone,  my  saintly  Augclette 
Went  wandering,  with  her  maiden  thoughts,  along. 

Here  is  the  little  rivulet  where  she  stopp'd; 

And  here  the  greenness  of  the  grass  shows  where 
'She  lingered  through  it,  searching  here  and  there 

Those  daisies  dear,  which  in  her  breast  she  dropp'd. 

•  Translated  by  Andrew  Lang  . 


IN  LYRIC  MOOD  29 

Here  did  she  sing,  and  here  she  wept,  and  here 
Her  smile  came  back;  and  here  I  seem  to  hear 
Those  faint  half-words  with  which  my  thoughts  are  rife; 

Here  did  she  sit;  here,  child  like,  did  she  dance, 
To  some  vague  impulse  of  her  own  romance — 
Ah,  love,  on  all  these  thoughts,  winds  out  my  life. 

At  the  other  extreme  of  difficulty  is  the  seslina,  a  form  in- 
vented by  the  troubadour  Arnaud  Daniel  at  the  end  of  the 
twelfth  century.  It  is  unrhymed  and  its  complicated  inter- 
weaving of  final  words  was  more  a  task  for  the  lover  of  games 
than  for  the  poet.  In  English  Swinburne  has  made  a  fairly 
successful  attempt  at  it. 

Rather  curiously,  the  real  adventure  of  the  Holy  Wars  did 
not  result  in  any  glorious  epic,  the  result  of  first  hand  ex- 
perience. Their  recital  was  left  to  be  chronicled  in  prose, 
while  distance  cast  its  glamor  over  the  old  stories,  and  min- 
strels still  recited  with  ever-increasing  verbosity  and  elaborate 
genealogical  detail  the  exploits  of  knights  who  were  the  an- 
cestors of  the  listeners  before  them.  To  gratify  the  demand 
for  long  stories  the  lais  and  romances  came  into  being.  The 
new  love  element  in  the  latter  form  possibly  was  suggested 
by  the  Greek  romances  with  which  the  crusaders  had  become 
acquainted  in  the  east.  Of  these  new  romances  none  is  so 
charming,  so  touched  with  appeal,  and,  withal,  so  modern 
in  action,  setting,  character  drawing,  as  the  chantc-fable  (song- 
story),  credited  to  the  twelfth  century,  of 

AUCASSIN  AND  NICOLETE 

(Translated  by  Andrew  Lang) 
'Tis  of  Aucassin  and  Nicolete. 

Who  would  list  to  the  good  lay 
Gladness  of  the  captive  grey? 
Tis  how  two  young  lovers  met, 
Aucassin  and  Nicolete, 
Of  the  pains  the  lover  bore 
And  the  sorrows  he  outwore, 
For  the  goodness  and  the  grace, 
Of  his  love,  so  fair  of  face. 


30  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Sweet  the  song,  the  story  sweet, 
There  is  no  man  hearkens  it, 
No  man  living  'neath  the  sun, 
So  outwearied,  so  foredone, 
Sick  and  woful,  worn  and  sad, 
But  is  healed,  but  is  glad 
'Tis  so  sweet. 

So  say  they,  speak  they,  tell  they  the  Tale : 

How  the  Count  Bougars  de  Valence  made  war  on  Count  Garin  de 
Biaucaire,  war  so  great,  and  so  marvellous,  and  so  mortal  that  never  a 
day  dawned  but  alway  he  was  there,  by  the  gates  and  walls,  and  barriers 
of  the  town  with  a  hundred  knights,  and  ten  thousand  men  at  arms, 
horsemen  and  footmen:  so  burned  he  the  Count's  land,  and  spoiled  his 
country,  and  slew  his  men.  Now  the  Count  Garin  de  Biaucaire  was  old 
and  frail,  and  his  good  days  were  gone  over.  No  heir  had  he,  neither  son 
nor  daughter,  save  one  young  man  only;  such  an  one  as  I  shall  tell  you. 
Aucassin  was  the  name  of  the  damoiseau:  fair  was  he,  goodly,  and  great, 
and  featly  fashioned  of  his  body,  and  limbs.  His  hair  was  yellow,  in 
little  curls,  his  eyes  blue  and  laughing,  his  face  beautiful  and  shapely, 
his  nose  high  and  well  set,  and  so  richly  seen  was  he  in  all  things  good, 
that  in  him  was  none  evil  at  all.  But  so  suddenly  overtaken  was  he  of 
Love,  who  is  a  great  master,  that  he  would  not,  of  his  will,  be  dubbed 
knight,  nor  take  arms,  nor  follow  tourneys,  nor  do  whatsoever  him  be- 
seemed. Therefore  his  father  and  mother  said  to  him; 

"Son,  go  take  thine  arms,  mount  thy  horse,  and  hold  thy  land,  and 
help  thy  men,  for  if  they  see  thee  among  them,  more  stoutly  will  they 
keep  in  battle  their  lives,  and  lands,  and  thine,  and  mine." 

"Father,"  said  Aucassin,  "I  marvel  that  you  will  be  speaking.  Never 
may  God  give  me  aught  of  my  desire  if  I  be  made  knight,  or  mount  my 
horse,  or  face  stour  and  battle  wherein  knights  smite  and  are  smitten 
again,  unless  thou  give  me  Nicolete,  my  true  love,  that  I  love  so  well." 

"Son,"  said  the  father,  "this  may  not  be.  Let  Nicolete  go,  a  slave 
girl  she  is,  out  of  a  strange  land,  and  the  captain  of  this  town  bought  her 
of  the  Saracens,  and  carried  her  hither,  and  hath  reared  her  and  let 
christen  the  maid,  and  took  her  for  his  daughter  in  God,  and  one  day  will 
find  a  young  man  for  her,  to  win  her  bread  honourably.  Herein  hast 
thou  nought  to  make  or  mend,  but  if  a  wife  thou  wilt  have,  I  will  give 
thee  the  daughter  of  a  King,  or  a  Count.  There  is  no  man  so  rich  in 
France,  but  if,  thou  desire  his  daughter,  thou  shalt  have  her." 

"Faith!  my  father,"  said  Aucassin,  "tell  me  where  is  the  place  so 
high  in  all  the  world,  that  Nicolete,  my  sweet  lady  and  love,  would  not 
grace  it  well?  If  she  were  Empress  of  Constantinople  or  of  Germany, 
or  Queen  of  France  or  England,  it  were  little  enough  for  her;  so  gentle 
is  she  and  courteous,  and  debonaire,  and  compact  of  all  good  qualities." 

Here  singeth  one: 

Aucassin  was  of  Biaucaire 
Of  a  goodly  castle  there, 
But  from  Nicolete  the  fair 
None  might  win  his  heart  away 
Though  his  father,  many  a  day, 
And  his  mother  said  him  nay, 
"Ha!  fond  child,  what  wouldest  thou? 
Nicolete  is  glad  enowl 


IN  LYRIC  MOOD  31 

Was  from  Carthage  cast  away, 
Paynims  sold  her  on  a  day! 
Wouldst  thou  win  a  lady  fair. 
Choose  a  maid  of  high  degree 
Such  an  one  is  meet  for  thee." 
"  Nav  of  these  I  have  no  care, 
Nicolete  is  debonaire, 
Her  body  sweet  and  the  face  of  her 
Take  my  heart  as  in  a  snare, 
Loyal  love  is  but  her  share 
That  is  so  sweet." 

Then  spake  they,  say  they,  tell  they  the  Tale: 

When  the  Count  Garin  de  Biaucaire  knew  that  he  would  avail  not 
to  withdraw  Aucassin  his  son  from  the  love  of  Nicolete,  he  went  to  the 
Captain  of  the  city,  who  was  his  man,  and  spake  to  him,  saying: 

"Sir  Count;  away  with  Nicolete  thy  daughter  in  God;  cursed  be  the 
land  whence  she  was  brought  into  this  country,  for  by  reason  of  her 
do  I  lose  Aucassin,  that  will  neither  be  dubbed  knight,  nor  do  aught  of 
the  things  that  fall  to  him  to  be  done.  And  wit  ye  well,"  he  said,  "that 
if  I  might  have  her  at  my  will,  I  would  burn  her  in  a  fire,  and  yourself 
might  well  be  sore  adread." 

"Sir,"  said  the  Captain,  "this  is  grievous  to  me  that  he  comes  and 
goes  and  hath  speech  with  her.  I  had  bought  the  maiden  at  mine  own 
charges,  and  nourished  her,  and  baptized,  and  made  her  my  daughter 
in  God.  Yea,  I  would  have  given  her  to  a  young  man  that  should  win 
her  bread  honourably.  With  this  had  Aucassin  thy  son  nought  to  make 
or  mend.  But,  sith  it  is  thy  will  and  thy  pleasure,  I  will  send  her  into 
that  land  and  that  country  where  never  will  he  see  her  with  his  eyes." 

"Have  a  heed  to  thyself,"  said  the  Count  Garin,  "thence  might  great 
evil  come  on  thee." 

So  parted  they  each  from  other.  Now  the  Captain  was  a  right  rich 
man:  so  had  he  a  rich  palace  with  a  garden  in  face  of  it;  in  an  upper 
chamber  thereof  he  let  place  Nicolete  with  one  old  woman  to  keep  her 
company,  and  in  that  chamber  put  bread  and  meat  and  wine  and  such 
things  as  were  needful.  Then  he  let  seal  the  door,  that  none  might  come 
in  or  go  forth,  save  that  there  was  one  window,  over  against  the  garden, 
and  strait  enough,  where  through  came  to  them  a  little  air. 

Here  singeth  one: 

Nicolete  as  ye  heard  tell 
Prisoned  is  within  a  cell 
That  is  painted  wondrously 
With  colours  of  a  far  countric. 
And  the  window  of  marble  wrought, 
There  the  maiden  stood  in  thought, 
With  straight  brows  and  yellow  hair 
Never  saw  ye  fairer  fair! 
On  the  wood  she  gnzed  below, 
And  she  saw  the  roses  blow, 
Heard  the  birds  sing  loud  and  low, 
Therefore  spoke  she  wofully: 
"Ah  me,  wherefore  do  I  lie 
Here  in  prison  wrongfully: 
Aucassin,  my  love,  my  knight, 
Am  I  not  thy  heart's  delight, 
Thou  that  lovcst  me  aright! 
Tis  for  thee  that  I  must  dwell 
In  the  vaulted  chamber  cell, 


32  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Hard  beset  and  all  alone! 
By  our  Lady  Mary's  Son 
Here  no  longer  will  I  wonn, 
If  I  may  fleet/' 

Aucassin  went  to  the  Captain  and  demanded  of  him  what  he  had  done 
with  Nicolete.  The  Captain  declared  that  the  lover  should  never  see  his 
lass  again,  and  Aucassin  went  away  sorrowing. 

Here  singeth  one: 

Aucassin  did  so  depart 
Much  in  dole  and  heavy  at  heart 
For  his  love  so  bright  and  dear, 
None  might  bring  him  any  cheer, 
None  might  give  good  words 'to  hear, 
To  the  palace  doth  he  fare 
Climbeth  up  the  palace-stair, 
Passeth  to  a  chamber  there, 
Thus  great  sorrow  doth  he  bear, 
For  his  lady  and  love  so  fair. 
"Nicolete  how  fair  art  thou, 
Sweet  thy  foot-fall,  sweet  thine  eyes, 
Sweet  the  mirth  of  thy  replies, 
Sweet  thy  laughter,  sweet  thy  face, 
Sweet  thy  lips  and  sweet  thy  brow, 
And  the  touch  of  thine  embrace, 
All  for  thee  I  sorrow  now, 
Captive  in  an  evil  place, 
Whence  I  ne'er  may  go  my  ways 
Sister,  sweet  friend!" 

While  Aucassin  was  sorrowing  for  Nicolete  his  father  was  waging  war, 
and  waxed  wroth  that  his  son  joined  not  his  band  of  fighters.  To  gain 
his  help  he  made  covenant  with  the  youth  that  should  he  come  back 
unharmed  from  the  fray  he  should  see  his  love  even  so  long  as  to  have 
of  her  two  words  or  three,  and  one  kiss.  Yet  though  Aucassin  fought 
bravely  and  captured  the  Count  of  Valence,  his  father  failed  to  keep  his 
oath  and  cast  his  son  into  a  dungeon. 

Then  say  they,  speak  they,  tell  they  the  Tale: 

Aucassin  was  cast  into  prison  as  ye  have  heard  tell,  and  Nicolete, 
of  her  part,  was  in  the  chamber.  Now  it  was  summer  time,  the  month 
of  May,  when  days  are  warm,  and  long,  and  clear,  and  the  night  still 
and  serene.  Nicolete  lay  one  night  on  her  bed,  and  saw  the  moon  shine 
clear  through  a  window,  yea,  and  heard  the  nightingale  sing  in  the 
garden,  so  she  minded  her  of  Aucassin  her  lover  whom  she  loved  so  well. 
Then  fell  she  to  thoughts  of  Count  Garin  de  Biaucaire,  that  hated  her  to 
the  death;  therefore  deemed  she  that  there  she  would  no  longer  abide, 
for  that,  if  she  were  told  of,  and  the  Count  knew  whereas  she  lay,  an  ill 
death  would  he  make  her  die.  Now  she  knew  that  the  old  woman  slept 
who  held  her  company.  Then  she  arose,  and  clad  in  a  mantle  of  silk 
she  had  by  her,  very  goodly,  and  took  napkins,  and  sheets  of  the  bed, 
and  knotted  one  to  the  other,  and  made  therewith  a  cord  as  long  as  she 
might,  so  knitted  it  to  a  pillar  in  the  window,  and  let  herself  slip  down 
into  the  garden,  then  caught  up  her  raiment  in  both  hands,  behind  and 


IN  LYRIC  MOOD  33 

before,  and  kilted  up  her  kirtle,  because  of  the  dew  that  she  saw  lying 
deep  on  the  grass,  and  so  went  her  way  down  through  the  garden. 

Her  locks  were  yellow  and  curled,  her  eyes  blue  and  smiling,  her  face 
featly  fashioned,  the  nose  high  and  fairly  set,  the  lips  more  red  than 
cherry  or  rose  in  time  of  summer,  her  teeth  white  and  small;  her  breasts 
so  firm  that  they  bore  up  the  folds  of  her  bodice  as  they  had  been  two 
apples;  so  slim  was  she  in  the  waist  that  your  two  hands  might  have 
clipped  her,  and  the  daisy  flowers  that  brake  beneath  her  as  she  went 
tip-toe,  and  that  bent  above  her  instep,  seemed  black  against  her  feet, 
so  white  was  the  maiden.  She  came  to  the  postern  gate,  and  unbarred 
it,  and  went  out  through  the  streets  of  Biaucaire,  keeping  always  on 
the  shadowy  side,  for  the  moon  was  shining  right  clear,  and  so  wandered 
she  till  she  came  to  the  tower  where  her  lover  lay.  The  tower  was  flanked 
with  buttresses,  and  she  cowered  under  one  of  them,  wrapped  in  her 
mantle.  Then  thrust  she  her  head  through  a  crevice  of  the  tower  that 
was  old  and  worn,  and  so  heard  she  Aucassin  wailing  within,  and  mak- 
ing dole  and  lament  for  the  sweet  lady  he  loved  so  well.  And  when  she 
had  listened  to  him  she  began  to  say: 

Here  one  singeih: 

Nicolete  the  bright  of  brow 
On  a  pillar  leanest  thou, 
All  Aucassin's  wail  doth  hear 
For  his  love  that  is  so  dear, 
Then  thou  spakest,  shrill  and  clear, 
"Gentle  knight  withouten  fear 
Ljttle  good  befalleth  thee, 
Little  help  of  sigh  or  tear, 
Ne'er  shall  thou  have  joy  of  me. 
Never  shall  thou  win  me;  still 
Am  I  held  in  evil  will 
.    Of  thy  father  and  thy  kin, 
Therefore  must  I  cross  ihe  sea, 
And  another  land  must  win." 
Then  she  cut  her  curls  of  gold, 
Cast  them  in  the  dungeon  hold, 
Aucassin  doth  clasp  them  there, 
Kissed  the  curls  that  were  so  fair, 
Them  doth  in  his  bosom  bear, 
Then  he  wept,  even  as  of  old, 
All  for  his  love! 

While  Aucassin  and  Nicolete  were  disputing  on  the  age  old  theme  as  to 
which  loved  the  other  the  more  the  town's  guards  came  down  the  street 
charged  by  Aucassin's  father,  Count  Garin,  to  slay  the  maid.  But  the 
sentinel  that  was  on  the  tower  saw  them  and  thought  it  great  pity  to  slay 
so  fair  a  maid. 

Here  one  singeth: 

Valiant  was  the  sentinel, 
Courteous,  kind,  and  practised  well, 
So  a  song  did  sing  and  tell 
Of  the  peril  that  befell. 
"Maiden  fair  that  lingerest  here, 
Gentle  maid  of  merry  cheer, 
Hair  of  gold,  and  eyes  as  clear 
As  the  water  in  a  mere, 
Thou,  mesccms,  hast  spoken  word 


34  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

To  thy  lover  and  thy  lord, 
That  would  die  for  thee,  his  dear; 
Now  beware  the  ill  accord, 
Of  the  cloaked  men  of  the  sword, 
These  have  sworn  and  keep  their  word, 
They  will  put  thee  to  the  swocd 
Save  thou  take  heed!" 

The  guards  passed  by  and  Nicolete  let  herself  slip  into  the  fosse  and 
then  climbed  the  wall  and  fled  into  the  forest  where  she  fell  asleep  in  a 
thicket.  When  she  awakened  she  saw  some  shepherd  lads  eating  their 
bread  by  a  fountain  and  by  them  she  sent  word  to  Aucassin  that  he 
should  come  to  the  forest  to  hunt. 

Then  spake  they,  say  they,  tell  they  the  Tale : 

Nicolete  built  her  lodge  of  boughs,  as  ye  have  heard,  right  fair  and 
feteously,  and  wove  it  well,  within  and  without,  of  flowers  and  leaves. 
So  lay  she  hard  by  the  lodge  in  a  deep  coppice  to  know  what  Aucassin 
will  do.  And  the  cry  and  the  bruit  went  abroad  through  all  the  country 
and  all  the  land,  that  Nicolete  was  lost.  Some  told  that  she  had  fled,  and 
some  that  the  Count  Garin  had  let  slay  her.  Whosoever  had  joy  thereof, 
no  joy  had  Aucassin.  And  the  Count  Garin,  his  father,  had  taken  him 
out  of  prison,  and  had  sent  for  the  knights  of  that  land,  and  the  ladies, 
and  let  make  a  right  great  feast,  for  the  comforting  of  Aucassin  his  son. 
Now  at  the  high  time  of  the  feast,  was  Aucassin  leaning  from  a  gallery, 
all  woful  and  discomforted.  Whatsoever  men  might  devise  of  mirth, 
Aucassin  had  no  joy  thereof,  nor  no  desire,  for  he  saw  not  her  that  he 
loved.  Then  a  knight  looked  on  him,  and  came  to  him,  and  said: 

"Aucassin,  of  that  sickness  of  thine  have  I  been  sick,  and  good  coun- 
sel will  I  give  thee,  if  thou  wilt  hearken  to  me — : 

"Sir,"  said  Aucassin,  "gramercy,  good  counsel  would  I  fain  hear." 

"Mount  thy  horse,"  quoth  he,  "and  go  take  thy  pastime  in  yonder 
forest,  there  wilt  thou  see  the  good  flowers  and  grass,  and  hear  the  sweet 
birds  sing.  Perchance  thou  shalt  hear  some  word,  whereby  thou  shalt 
be  the  better." 

"Sir,"  quoth  Aucassin,  "gramercy,  that  will  I  do." 

He  passed  out  of  the  hall,  and  went  down  the  stairs,  and  came  to 
the  stable  where  his  horse  was.  He  let  saddle  and  bridle  him,  and 
mounted,  and  rode  forth  from  the  castle,  and  wandered  till  he  came  to  the 
forest,  so  rode  till  he  came  to  the  fountain,  and  found  the  shepherds 
at  point  of  noon.  And  they  had  a  mantle  stretched  on  the  grass,  and  were 
eating  bread,  and  making  great  joy. 

From  the  lads  Aucassin  learned  that  Nicolete  had  passed  through  the 
forest  and  he  rode  on  his  search  madly  hurling  his  horse  through  the 
briars. 

All  down  an  old  road,  and  grassgrown  he  fared,  when  anon  looking 
along  the  way  before  him,  he  saw  such  an  one  as  I  shall  tell  you.  Tall 
was  he,  and  great  of  growth,  laidly  and  marvellous  to  look  upon:  his  head 
huge,  and  black  as  charcoal,  and  more  than  the  breadth  of  a  hand  be- 
tween his  two  eyes,  and  great  cheeks,  and  a  big  nose  and  broad,  big 


IN  LYRIC  MOOD  35 

nostrils  and  ugly,  and  thick  lips  redder  than  a  collop,  and  great  teeth 
yellow  and  ugly,  and  he  was  shod  with  hosen  and  shoon  of  bull's  hide, 
bound  with  cords  of  bark  over  the  knee,  all  about  him  a  great  cloak 
twy-fold,  and  he  leaned  on  a  grievous  cudgel,  and  Aucassin  came  unto 
him,  and  was  afraid  when  he  beheld  him. 

"  Fair  brother,  God  aid  thee." 

"God  bless  you,"  quoth  he. 

"As  God  he  helpeth  thee,  what  makest  thou  here?" 

"What  is  that  to  thee?" 

"Nay,  naught,  naught,"  saith  Aucassin,  "I  ask  but  out  of  courtesy." 

"But  for  whom  weepest  thou,"  quoth  he,  "and  makest  such  heavy 
lament?  Certes,  were  I  as  rich  a  man  as  thou,  the  whole  world  should 
not  make  me  weep." 

"Ha!  know  ye  me?"  saith  Aucassin. 

"  Yea,  I  know  well  that  ye  be  Aucassin,  the  son  of  the  Count,  and  if 
ye  tell  me  for  why  ye  weep,  then  will  I  tell  you  what  I  make  here." 

"Certes,"  quoth  Aucassin,  "I  will  tell  you  right  gladly.  Hither  came 
I  this  morning  to  hunt  in  this  forest;  and  with  me  a  white  hound,  the 
fairest  in  the  world;  him  have  I  lost,  and  for  him  I  weep." 

"By  the  Heart  our  Lord  bare  in  his  breast,"  quoth  he,  "are  ye  weep- 
ing for  a  stinking  hound?  Foul  fall  him  that  holds  thee  high  henceforth! 
for  there  is  no  such  rich  man  in  the  land,  but  if  thy  father  asked  it  of  him, 
he  would  give  thee  ten,  or  fifteen,  or  twenty,  and  be  the  gladder  for  it. 
But  I  have  cause  to  weep  and  make  dole." 

"Wherefore  so,  brother?" 

"Sir,  I  will  tell  thee.  I  was  hireling  to  a  rich  villain,  and  drove  his 
plough;  four  oxen  had  he.  But  three  days  since  came  on  me  great  mis- 
adventure, whereby  I  lost  the  best  of  mine  oxen,  Roger,  the  best  of  my 
team.  Him  go  I  seeking,  and  have  neither  eaten  nor  drunken  these  three 
days,  nor  may  I  go  to  the  town,  lest  they  cast  me  into  prison,  seeing 
that  I  have  not  wherewithal  to  pay.  Out  of  all  the  wealth  of  the  world 
have  I  no  more  than  ye  see  on  my  body.  A  poor  mother  bare  me,  that 
had  no  more  but  one  wretched  bed;  this  have  they  taken  from  under 
her,  and  she  lies  in  the  very  straw.  This  ails  me  more  than  mine  own  case, 
for  wealth  comes  and  goes;  if  now  I  have  lost,  another  tide  will  I  gain, 
and  will  pay  for  mine  ox  whenas  I  may;  never  for  that  will  I  weep.  But 
you  weep  for  a  stinking  hound.  Foul  fall  whoso  thinks  well  of  thee!" 

"Certes,  thou  art  a  good  comforter,  brother,  blessed  be  thou!  And 
of  what  price  was  thine  ox?  " 

"Sir,  they  ask  me  twenty  sols  for  him,  whereof  I  cannot  abate  one 
doit." 

"Nay,  then,"  quoth  Aucassin,  "take  these  twenty  sols  I  have  in  my 
purse,  and  pay  for  thine  ox." 

"Sir,"  saith  he,  "gramercy.  And  God  give  thee  to  find  that  thou 
seekest." 

So  they  parted  each  from  other,  and  Aucassin  rode  on:  the  night 
was  fair  and  still,  and  so  long  he  went  that  he  came  to  the  lodge  of 
boughs,  that  Nicolete  had  builded  and  woven  within  and  without,  over 
and  under,  with  flowers,  and  it  was  the  fairest  lodge  that  might  be 
seen.  When  Aucassin  was  ware  of  it,  he  stopped  suddenly,  and  the  light 
of  the  moon  fell  therein, 


36  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

"God!"  quoth  Aucassin,  "here  was  Nicolete  my  sweet  lady,  and 
this  lodge  builded  she  with  her  fair  hands.  For  the  sweetness  of  it, 
and  for  love  of  her,  will  I  alight,  and  rest  here  this  night  long." 

He  drew  forth  his  foot  from  the  stirrup  to  alight,  and  the  steed  was 
great  and  tall.  He  dreamed  so  much  on  Nicolete  his  right  sweet  lady, 
that  he  slipped  on  a  stone,  and  drave  his  shoulder  out  of  his  place.  Then 
knew  he  that  he  was  hurt  sore,  natheless  he  bore  him  with  what  force 
he  might,  and  fastened  with  the  other  hand  the  mare's  son  to  a  thorn. 
Then  turned  he  on  his  side,  and  crept  backwise  into  the  lodge  of  boughs. 
And  he  looked  through  a  gap  in  the  lodge  and  saw  the  stars  in  heaven, 
and  one  that  was  brighter  than  the  rest;  so  began  he  to  say: 

Here  singeth  one: 

"Star,  that  I  from  far  behold, 
Star,  the  Moon  calls  to  her  fold, 
Nicolete  with  thee  doth  dwell,    • 
My  sweet  love  with  locks  of  gold, 
God  would  have  her  dwell  afar, 
Dwell  with  him  for  evening  star, 
Would  to  God  whate'er  befell, 
Would  that  with  her  I  might  dwell. 
I  would  clip  her  close  and  strait, 
Nay,  were  I  of  much  estate, 
Some  king's  son  desirable, 
Worthy  she  to  be  my  mate, 
Me  to  kiss  and  clip  me  well, 
Sister,  sweet  friend!" 

So  speak  they,  say  they,  tell  they  the  Tale: 

When  Nicolete  heard  Aucassin,  right  so  came  she  unto  him,  for  she 
was  not  far  away.  She  passed  within  the  lodge,  and  threw  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  and  clipped  and  kissed  him. 

"  Fair  sweet  friend,  welcome  be  thou." 

"And  thou,  fair  sweet  love,  be  thou  welcome." 

So  either  kissed  and  clipped  the  other,  and  fair  joy  was  them  between. 

"Ha!  sweet  love,"  quoth  Aucassin,  "but  now  was  I  sore  hurt,  and  my 
shoulder  wried,  but  I  take  no  force  of  it,  nor  have  no  hurt  therefrom  since 
I  have  thee." 

Right  so  felt  she  his  shoulder  and  found  it  was  wried  from  its  place. 
And  she  so  handled  it  with  her  white  hands,  and  so  wrought  in  her  sur- 
gery, that  by  God's  will  who  loveth  lovers,  it  went  back  into  its  place. 
Then  took  she  flowers,  and  fresh  grass,  and  leaves  green,  and  bound  these 
herbs  on  the  hurt  with  a  strip  of  her  smock,  and  he  was  all  healed. 

Then  Aucassin  took  Nicolete  before  him  on  his  horse  and  through  the 
country  they  rode  till  they  came  to  the  sea  shore,  and  there  they  were 
brought  aboard  a  ship  and  came  at  last  to  the  haven  of  the  castle  of  Tore- 
lore.  Here  they  found  king  and  queen  exchanging  duties,  and  Aucassin 
did  set  them  right.  Then  he  and  Nicolete  dwelt  in  the  castle  in  great 
delight  until  a  band  of  Saracens  seized  them  and  threw  Aucassin  into 
one  ship  and  Nicolete  into  another.  Aucassin's  ship  bore  him  to  Biau- 
caire,  his  own  land,  where  he  found  his  parents  dead  and  himself  the  over- 
lord. And  he  held  the  land  in  peace. 


IN  LYRIC  MOOD  37 

Then  speak  they,  say  they,  tell  they  the  Tale: 

Now  leave  we  Aucassin,  and  speak  we  of  Nicolete.  The  ship  wherein 
she  was  cast  pertained  to  the  King  of  Carthage,  and  he  was  her  father, 
and  she  had  twelve  brothers,  all  princes  or  kings.  When  they  beheld 
Nicolete,  how  fair  she  was,  they  did  her  great  worship,  and  made  much 
joy  of  her,  and  many  times  asked  her  who  she  was,  for  surely  seemed 
she  a  lady  of  noble  line  and  high  parentry.  But  she  might  not  tell  them 
of  her  lineage,  for  she  was  but  a  child  when  men  stole  her  away.  So  sailed 
they  till  they  won  the  City  of  Carthage,  and  when  Nicolete  saw  the  walls 
of  the  castle,  and  the  country-side,  she  knew  that  there  had  she  been 
nourished  and  thence  stolen  away,  being  but  a  child.  Yet  was  she 
not  so  young  a  child  but  that  well  she  knew  she  had  been  daughter 
of  the  King  of  Carthage;  and  of  her  nurture  in  that  city. 

Here  singeth  one: 

Nicolete  the  good  and  true 
To  the  land  has  come  anew. 
Sees  the  palaces  and  walls. 
And  the  houses  and  the  halls! 
Then  she  spake  and  said,  "Alasl 
That  of  birth  so  great  I  was, 
Cousin  of  the  Amiral 
And  the  very  child  of  him 
Carthage  counts  King  of  Paynira, 
Wild  folk  hold  me  here  withal; 
Nay  Aucassin,  love  of  thee 
Gentle  knight,  and  true,  and  free, 
Burns  and  wastes  the  heart  of  me. 
Ah  God  grant  it  of  his  grace, 
That  thou  hold  me,  and  embrace, 
That  thou  kiss  me  on  the  face 
Love  and  lord!" 

Then  speak  they,  say  they,  tell  they  the  Tale : 

When  the  King  of  Carthage  heard  Nicolete  speak  in  this  wise,  he  cast 
his  arms  about  her  neck. 

"Fair  sweet  love,"  saith  he,  "tell  me  who  thou  art,  and  be  not  adread 
of  me." 

"Sir,"  said  she,  "I  am  daughter  to  the  King  of  Carthage,  and  was 
taken,  being  then  a  little  child,  it  is  now  fifteen  years  gone." 

When  all  they  of  the  court  heard  her  speak  thus,  they  knew  well  that 
she  spake  sooth:  so  made  they  great  joy  of  her,  and  led  her  to  the  castle 
in  great  honour,  as  the  King's  daughter.  And  they  would  have  given 
her  to  her  lord  a  King  of  Paynim,  but  she  had  no  mind  to  marry. 
There  dwelt  she  three  days  or  four.  And  she  considered  by  what  means 
she  might  seek  for  Aucassin.  Then  she  got  her  a  viol,  and  learned  to  play 
on  it,  till  they  would  have  married  her  on  a  day  to  a  great  King  of  Pay- 
nim, and  she  stole  forth  by  night,  and  came  to  the  seaport,  and  dwelt 
with  a  poor  woman  thereby.  Then  took  she  a  certain  herb,  and  therewith 
smeared  her  head  and  her  face,  till  she  was  all  brown  and  stained.  And 
she  let  make  coat,  and  mantle,  and  smock,  and  hose,  and  attired  her- 
self as  if  she  had  been  a  harper.  So  took  she  the  viol  and  went  to  a  mar- 
iner, and  so  wrought  on  him  that  he  took  her  aboard  his  vessel.  Then 
hoisted  they  sail,  and  fared  on  the  high  seas  even  till  they  came  to  the 
land  of  Provence.  And  Nicolete  went  forth  and  took  the  viol,  and  went 


38  THE  SPIRIT  OP  FRENCH  LETTERS 

playing  through  all  that  country  even  till  she  came  to  the  castle  of  Biau- 
caire,  where  Aucassin  lay. 

On  the  stair  Nicolete  set  foot,  not  betraying  who  she  was,  and  she  sang 
to  Aucassin  of  what  had  befallen  his  love. 

So  speak  they,  say  they,  tell  they  the  Tale: 

When  Aucassin  heard  Nicolete  speak  in  this  wise,  he  was  right  joyful, 
and  drew  her  on  one  side,  and  spoke,  saying: 

"Sweet  fair  friend,  knew  ye  nothing  of  this  Nicolete,  of  whom  ye  have 
thus  sung?  " 

"Yea,  Sir,  I  know  her  for  the  noblest  creature,  and  the  most  gen- 
tle, and  the  best  that  ever  was  born  on  ground.  She  is  daughter  to  the 
King  of  Carthage  that  took  her  there  where  Aucassin  was  taken,  and 
brought  her  into  the  city  of  Carthage,  till  he  knew  that  verily  she  was 
his  own  daughter,  whereon  he  made  right  great  mirth.  Anon  wished  he 
to  give  her  for  her  lord  one  of  the  greatest  kings  of  all  Spain,  but  she 
would  rather  let  herself  be  hanged  or  burned,  than  take  any  lord,  how 
great  soever." 

"Ha!  fair  sweet  friend,"  quoth  the  Count  Aucassin,  "if  thou  wilt 
go  into  that  land  again,  and  bid  her  come  and  speak  to  me,  I  will  give 
thee  of  my  substance,  more  than  thou  wouldst  dare  to  ask  or  take.  And 
know  ye  that  for  the  sake  of  her,  I  have  no  will  to  take  a  wife,  howsoever 
high  her  lineage.  So  wait  I  for  her,  and  never  will  I  have  a  wife,  but  her 
only.  And  if  I  knew  where  to  find  her,  no  need  would  I  have  to  seek  her." 

"Sir,"  quoth  she,  "if  ye  promise  me  that,  I  will  go  in  quest  of  her 
for  your  sake,  and  for  hers,  that  I  love  much." 

So  he  sware  to  her,  and  anon  let  give  her  twenty  livres,  and  she  de- 
parted from  him,  and  he  wept  for  the  sweetness  of  Nicolete.  And  when 
she  saw  him  weeping,  she  said: 

"Sir,  trouble  not  thyself  so  much  withal.  For  in  a  little  while  shall 
I  have  brought  her  into  this  city,  and  ye  shall  see  her." 

When  Aucassin  heard  that,  he  was  right  glad  thereof.  And  she 
departed  from  him,  and  went  into  the  city  to  the  house  of  the  Captain's 
wife,  for  the  Captain  her  father  in  God  was  dead.  So  she  dwelt  there, 
and  told  all  her  tale;  and  the  Captain's  wife  knew  her,  and  knew  well 
that  she  was  Nicolete  that  she  herself  had  nourished.  Then  she  let 
wash  and  bathe  her,  and  there  rested  she  eight  full  days.  Then  took  she 
an  herb  that  was  named  Eyebrighl  and  anointed  herself  therewith, 
and  was  as  fair  as  ever  she  had  been  all  the  days  of  her  life.  Then  she 
clothed  herself  in  rich  robes  of  silk  whereof  the  lady  had  great  store, 
and  then  sat  herself  in  the  chamber  on  a  silken  coverlet,  and  called  the 
lady  and  bade  her  go  and  bring  Aucassin  her  love,  and  she  did  even  so. 
And  when  she  came  to  the  Palace  she  found  Aucassin  weeping,  and  mak- 
ing lament  for  Nicolete  his  love,  for  that  she  delayed  so  long.  And  the 
lady  spake  unto  him  and  said: 

"Aucassin,  sorrow  no  more,  but  come  thou  on  with  me,  and  I  will 
show  thee  the  thing  in  the  world  that  thou  lovest  best;  even  Nicolete  thy 
dear  love,  who  from  far  lands  hath  come  to  seek  of  thee."  And  Aucassin 
was  right  glad. 


CHAPTER  III 

STIRRINGS    OF    DEMOCRACY   AND    THE    GREAT 
AWAKENING 

THE  folk  lore  of  a  people  is  the  surest  treasure  house  for 
knowledge  of  the  temper  of  the  time,  and  this  is  as  true  of 
the  fabliaux  (composed  from  about  the  middle  of  the  twelfth 
to  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century)  in  France  as  it  is  in 
other  countries-.  The  fabliau  was  a  short  tale  in  verse,  a  tale, 
which,  while  it  related  a  story,  seized  the  opportunity  to 
make  comment  upon  the  action  of  its  characters  and  thus  to 
satirize  or  approve  the  life  which  they  represented.  Many 
were  the  subjects  of  the  fabliau;  now  it  was  given  to  tales  of 
piety  and  now  to  jests  at  the  expense  of  the  clergy;  at  one 
moment  it  related  experiences  of  domestic  life,  coarse  both 
in  tone  and  in  telling,  as  was  almost  always  the  character  at 
that  time  of  any  story  about  women;  again  it  was  pathetic  or 
tragic  or  simply  humorous.  La  Fontaine  in  the  seventeenth 
century  borrowed  from  Gautier  Le  Long  of  the  thirteenth 
century  a  "human  interest  story"  and  turned  it  into  modern 
French  as 

THE  YOUNG  WIDOW 

The  death  of  a  husband  goes  not  unwept;  first  comes  lamentation, 
then  consolation.  Sadness  flies  away  upon  the  wings  of  Time  who  brings 
Pleasure  back  again.  A  great  difference  is  to  be  found  between  the  widow 
of  a  day  and  the  widow  of  a  year;  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  she  is  the  same 
person.  The  former  causes  people  to  fly  from  her,  but  the  latter  has  a 
thousand  attractions.  The  first  abandons  herself  to  sighs,  whether  true 
or  false;  she  always  entertains  her  hearers  with  the  same  mournful  note. 
She  is  inconsolable,  so  she  says;  but  is  she?  Let  this  fable,  or,  rather, 
let  the  Truth  speak. 

39 


40  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

A  young  beauty  lost  her  husband.  Beside  his  deathbed  she  cried  out 
in  her  pain:  "Wait  for  me,  wait,  I  follow.  My  soul  is  ready  to  fly  away 
with  yours."  The  husband,  however,  made  the  journey  alone.  The 
beauty's  father  was  wise  and  prudent.  He  allowed  the  torrent  to  run 
its  course.  Finally  to  console  her  he  said:  "Daughter,  your  tears  flow 
too  copiously.  Do  you  help  the  dead  by  injuring  your  beauty?  We  are 
among  the  living;  cease  thinking  about  the  dead.  A  happier  frame  of 
mind  might  not  immediately  change  these  lamentations  into  marriage, 
but  perhaps  later  a  handsome  husband,  as  young  and  well-made  as  the 
deceased  might  be  found  for  you."  "Ah,"  she  answered  quickly,  "a 
cloister  is  the  husband  I  desire."  Her  father  left  her  alone  to  digest  her 
sorrow.  A  month  passed  thus;  another,  and  she  began  to  pay  more 
attention  to  her  dress  and  headgear.  At  last,  growing  impatient  for 
gayer  clothes  her  mourning  became  frankly  an  adornment.  The  whole 
flock  of  Loves  came  back  to  the  dove-cote,  games,  laughter,  dancing 
once  more  held  sway.  Morning  and  evening  she  plunged  into  the  foun- 
tain of  Youth.  No  longer  did  the  father  fear  the  effect  of  grief.  But,  as 
he  said  nothing  to  our  beauty — "Where,  then,  is  the  young  husband  you 
promised  me?"  said  she. 

Nor  was  La  Fontaine  the  only  borrower  from  the  fabliaux, 
Moliere  in  France,  Chaucer  and  Shakspere  in  England, 
Boccaccio  in  Italy  took  possession  of  plots  with  the  calmness 
of  the  genius  who  knows  that  when  an  idea  has  passed  through 
the  crucible  of  his  temperament  it  becomes  so  changed  that 
it  may  be  truthfully  called  his  own.  Such  a  story  as  the  fol- 
lowing tale  of  filial  ingratitude  is  one  whose  appeal  is  not 
limited  to  any  one  country. 

THE  DIVIDED  HORSECLOTH 

(Abridged  from  the  translation  by  Eugene  Mason) 

Some  seven  years  ago  it  befell  that  a  rich  burgess  of  Abbeville  departed 
from  the  town,  together  with  his  wife,  his  only  son,  and  all  his  wealth, 
his  goods  and  plenishing.  From  Abbeville  he  went  up  to  Paris.  There  he 
sought  a  shop  and  dwelling,  and  paying  his  service,  made  himself  vassal 
and  burgess  of  the  King.  The  merchant  was  diligent  and  courteous, 
his  wife  smiling  and  gracious,  and  their  son  was  not  given  over  to  folly, 
but  went  soberly,  even  as  his  parents  taught  him.  So  this  wealthy  mer- 
chant lived  a  happy  blameless  life,  till,  by  the  will  of  God,  his  wife  was 


THE  GREAT  AWAKENING  41 

taken  from  him,  who  had  been  his  companion  for  some  thirty  years. 
Now  these  parents  had  but  one  only  child,  a  son,  even  as  I  have  told  you 
before.  Very  grievously  did  he  mourn  the  death  of  her  who  had  cher- 
ished him  so  softly.  Then,  to  put  a  little  comfort  in  his  heart,  his  father 
said  to  him — 

"Thou  art  a  young  bachelor,  and  it  is  time  to  take  thee  a  wife.  I  am 
full  of  years,  and  so  I  may  find  thee  a  fair  marriage  in  an  honourable 
house  I  will  endow  thee  with  my  substance.  I  will  now  seek  a  bride  for 
thee  of  birth  and  breeding — one  of  family  and  descent.  There,  where 
it  is  good  and  profitable  to  be,  I  will  set  thee  gladly,  nor  of  wealth  and 
moneys  shalt  thou  find  a  lack." 

Now  in  that  place  were  three  brethren,  knights  of  high  lineage,  cousins 
to  mighty  lords  of  peerage,  bearing  rich  and  honourable  blazons  on  their 
shields.  But  these  knights  had  no  heritage.  The  eldest  of  these  brothers 
had  a  daughter,  but  the  mother  of  the  maid  was  dead.  Now  this  dam- 
sel owned  in  Paris  a  certain  fair  house,  over  against  the  mansion  of  the 
wealthy  merchant.  So  the  merchant,  esteeming  her  a  lady  of  family 
and  estate,  demanded  her  hand  in  marriage  of  her  father  and  of  all  her 
friends.  The  knight  inquired  in  his  turn  of  the  means  and  substance 
of  the  merchant,  who  answered  very  frankly — 

"In  merchandise  and  in  moneys  I  have  near  upon  fifteen  hundred 
pounds.  I  have  besides  one  hundred  Paris  pounds,  which  I  have  gained 
in  honest  dealings.  Of  all  this  I  will  give  my  son  the  half." 

"Fair  sir,"  made  answer  the  knight,  "in  no  wise  can  this  be  agreed 
to.  Had  you  become  a  Templar,  or  a  White  or  a  Black  Monk  you  would 
have  granted  the  whole  of  your  wealth  either  to  the  Temple  or  your 
Abbey.  By  my  faith,  we  cannot  consent  to  so  grudging  an  offer,  certes, 
sir  merchant,  no." 

"Tell  me  then  what  you  would  have  me  do." 

"Very  willingly,  fair,  dear  sir.  We  would  that  you  grant  to  your  son 
the  sum  and  total  of  your  substance,  so  that  he  be  seised  of  all  your  wealth. 
If  you  consent  to  this  the  marriage  can  be  made,  but  otherwise  he  shall 
never  wed  our  child  and  niece." 

The  merchant  turned  this  over  for  a  while,  now  looking  upon  his  son, 
now  deep  in  thought.  But  very  badly  he  was  served  of  all  his  thought 
and  pondering.  For  at  the  last  he  made  reply  to  him  and  said — 

"Lord,  it  shall  even  be  done  according  to  your  will.  This  is  our  cove- 
nant and  bargain,  that  so  your  daughter  is  given  to  my  son  I  will  grant 
him  all  that  I  have  of  worth.  I  take  this  company  as  witness  that  here 
I  strip  myself  of  everything  I  own,  so  that  naught  is  mine,  but  all  is  his, 
of  what  I  once  was  seised  and  possessed." 


42  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Thus  before  the  witnesses  he  divested  himself  utterly  of  all  his  wealth, 
and  became  naked  as  a  peeled  wand  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  So  when 
the  words  were  spoken  and  the  merchant  altogether  spoiled,  then  the 
knight  took  his  daughter  by  the  hand  and  handfasted  her  with  the 
bachelor,  and  she  became  his  wife. 

For  two  years  after  this  marriage  the  husband  and  the  dame  lived 
a  quiet  and  peaceful  life.  Then  a  fair  son  was  born  to  the  bachelor,  and 
the  lady  cherished  and  guarded  him  fondly.  With  them  dwelt  the  mer- 
chant in  the  same  lodging,  but  very  soon  he  perceived  that  he  had  given 
himself  a  mortal  blow  in  despoiling  himself  of  his  substance  to  live  on 
the  charity  of  others.  But  perforce  he  remained  of  their  household  for 
more  than  twelve  years,  until  the  lad  had  grown  up  tall,  and  began  to 
take  notice,  and  to  remember  that  which  often  he  heard  of  the  making 
of  his  father's  marriage. 

The  merchant  was  full  of  years.  He  leaned  upon  his  staff,  and  went 
bent  with  age,  as  one  who  searches  for  his  lost  youth.  His  son  was  weary 
of  his  presence,  and  would  gladly  have  paid  for  the  spinning  of  his  shroud. 
The  dame,  who  was  proud  and  disdainful,  held  him  in  utter  despite,  for 
greatly  he  was  against  her  heart.  Never  was  she  silent,  but  always  was 
she  saying  to  her  lord — 

"Husband,  for  love  of  me,  send  your  father  upon  his  business.  I  lose 
all  appetite  just  for  the  sight  of  him  about  the  house." 

"Wife,"  answered  he,  "this  shall  be  done  according  to  your  wish." 

So  because  of  his  wife's  anger  and  importunity,  he  sought  out  his 
father  straightway,  and  said — 

"Father,  father,  get  you  gone  from  here.  I  tell  you  that  you  must 
do  the  best  you  can,  for  we  may  no  longer  concern  ourselves  with  you  and 
your  lodging.  For  twelve  years  and  more  we  have  given  you  food  and 
raiment  in  our  house.  Now  all  is  done,  so  rise  and  depart  forthwith, 
and  fend  for  yourself,  as  fend  you  must." 

Then  the  father  grieved  so  bitterly  that  for  a  little  his  very  heart 
would  have  broken.  Weak  as  he  was,  he  raised  himself  to  his  feet  and 
went  forth  from  the  house  weeping. 

"Son,"  said  he,  "I  commend  thee  to  God;  but  since  thou  wilt  that  I 
go,  for  the  love  of  Him  give  me  at  least  a  portion  of  packing  cloth  to 
shelter  me  against  the  wind.  I  am  but  lightly  clad,  and  fear  to  die  for 
reason  of  the  cold." 

Then  he  who  shrank  from  any  grace  of  charity  made  reply — 

"Father,  I  have  no  cloth,  so  neither  can  I  bestow,  nor  have  it  taken 
from  me." 

"Fair,  sweet  son,  my  heart  trembles  within  me,  so  greatly  do  I  dread 


THE  GREAT  AWAKENING  43 

the  cold.  Give  me,  then,  the  cloth  you  spread  upon  your  horse,  so  that  I 
come  to  no  evil." 

So  he,  seeing  that  he  might  not  rid  himself  of  his  father  save  by  the 
granting  of  a  gift,  and  being  desirous  above  all  that  he  should  part,  bade 
his  son  to  fetch  this  horsecloth.  When  the  lad  heard  his  father's  call  he 
sprang  to  him,  saying — 

"  Father,  what  is  your  pleasure?  " 

"Fair  son,"  said  he,  "get  you  to  the  stable,  and  if  you  find  it  open  give 
my  father  the  covering  that  is  upon  my  horse.  Give  him  the  best  cloth 
in  the  stable,  so  that  he  may  make  himself  a  mantle  or  a  habit,  or  any 
other  sort  of  cloak  that  pleases  him." 

Then  the  lad,  who  was  thoughtful  beyond  his  years,  made  answer — 

"Grandsire,  come  now  with  me." 

So  the  merchant  went  with  him  to  the  stable,  exceedingly  heavy  and 
wrathful.  The  lad  chose  the  best  horsecloth  he  might  find  in  the  stable, 
the  newest,  the  largest,  and  the  most  fair;  this  he  folded  in  two,  and 
drawing  forth  his  knife,  divided  the  cloth  in  two  portions.  Then  he 
bestowed  on  his  grandfather  one  half  of  the  sundered  horsecloth. 

"  Fair  child,"  said  the  old  man,  "  what  have  you  done?  Why  have  you 
cut  the  cloth  that  your  father  has  given  me?  Very  cruelly  have  you 
treated  me,  for  you  were  bidden  to  give  me  the  horsecloth  whole.  I 
shall  return  and  complain  to  my  son  thereof." 

"Go  where  you  will,"  replied  the  boy,  "for  certainly  you  shall  have 
nothing  more  from  me." 

The  merchant  went  forth  from  the  stable. 

"Son,"  said  he,  "chastise  now  thy  child,  since  he  counts  thy  word  as 
nothing  but  an  idle  tale,  and  fears  not  to  disobey  thy  commandment. 
Dost  thou  not  see  that  he  keeps  one  half  of  the  horsecloth?" 

"Plague  take  thee!"  cried  the  father;  "give  him  all  the  cloth." 

"Certes,"  replied  the  boy,  "that  will  I  never  do,  for  how  then  shall 
you  be  paid?  Rather  will  I  keep  the  half  until  I  am  grown  a  man,  and 
then  give  it  to  you.  For  just  as  you  have  chased  him  from  your  house, 
so  I  will  put  you  from  my  door.  Even  as  he  has  bestowed  on  you  all  his 
wealth,  so,  in  my  turn,  will  I  require  of  you  all  your  substance.  Naught 
from  me  shall  you  carry  away,  save  that  only  which  you  have  granted  to 
him.  If  you  leave  him  to  die  in  his  misery,  I  wait  my  day,  and  surely  will 
leave  you  to  perish  in  yours." 

The  father  listened  to  these  words,  and  at  the  end  sighed  heavily. 
He  repented  him  of  the  evil  that  he  purposed,  and  from  the  parable  that 
his  child  had  spoken  took  heed  and  warning.  Turning  himself  about 
towards  the  merchant,  he  said — 


44  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

"Father,  return  to  my  house.  Sin  and  the  Enemy  thought  to  have 
caught  me  in  the  snare,  but,  please  God,  I  have  escaped  from  the  fowler. 
Henceforth  you  shall  live  softly  in  the  ceiled  chamber,  near  by  a  blazing 
fire,  clad  warmly  in  your  furred  robe,  even  as  I.  And  all  this  is  not  of 
charity,  but  of  your  right,  for,  fair  sweet  father,  if  I  am  rich  it  is  because 
of  your  substance." 

And  deeply  should  this  adventure  be  considered  of  those  who  are 
about  to  marry  their  children.  Let  them  not  strip  themselves  so  bare 
as  to  have  nothing  left.  For  he  who  gives  all,  and  depends  upon  the 
charity  of  others,  prepares  a  rod  for  his  own  back. 

It  was  during  these  two  centuries  of  the  early  middle  ages, 
the  twelfth  and  thirteenth,  that  there  came  into  being  the 
middle  or  citizen  class,  the  bourgeois,  so  called  because  it 
lived  in  bourgs  or  towns.  A  fourteenth  century  chanson 
called  "Hugh  the  Butcher"  recognizes  that  the  origin  of 
the  Capetian  house  through  the  elevation  to  the  throne  (in 
987)  of  Hugh  Capet,  who  was  said  to  be  a  butcher's  son, 
encouraged  the  democracy  by  giving  the  highest  power  to  a 
man  of  low  origin.  During  the  crusading  years  the  lords  were 
frequently  obliged  to  grant  concessions  to  towns,  many  of 
them  already  privileged,  and  to  individuals  of  minor  degree 
in  order  to  secure  men  and  money  for  their  following.  These 
same  followers,  trained  by  generations  of  fighting  in  the  pri- 
vate wars  of  their  feudal  masters,  developed  a  power  of  intelli- 
gent thinking  which,  when  increased  by  the  broadening  knowl- 
edge of  men  and  things  that  they  gained  in  the  East,  raised 
them  in  their  own  respect  and  in  regard  of  the  barons  whom 
they  served.  Knowledge  and  the  arts  ceased  to  be  the  ex- 
clusive possession  of  the  church,  and  laymen  became  builders, 
craftsmen,  teachers,  artists,  musicians,  and  lawyers.  Philip 
Augustus  encouraged  the  citizen  class  through  gifts  and  grants 
with  the  result  that  they  supported  him  unswervingly  in  his 
efforts  to  establish  the  royal  authority,  whether  he  united  with 
the  barons  against  the  encroachments  of  the  church  or  with  the 
church  against  the  presumption  of  the  barons.  Louis  IX — 


THE  GREAT  AWAKENING  45 

St.  Louis — increased  the  power  of  the  king  by  a  consistent 
policy  of  concentration,  which  included  the  lessening  of  the 
privileges  of  the  communal  or  independent  towns.  The  class 
of  citizens  whom  these  towns  had  fostered,  however,  did  not 
change  with  the  altered  political  situation.  Rather  did  their 
consciousness  of  their  rights  as  men,  which  showed  itself  in 
the  fabliaux,  and  which  never  has  died  out  through  all  the 
tale  of  French  letters,  increase,  to  burst  into  eruption  at  the 
French  Revolution,  and  to  live  even  now  as  that  spirit  of 
Democracy  which  makes  France  with  its  bourgeois  rulers,  one 
of  the  most  interesting  political  exhibits  of  modern  times. 

Most  of  the  fabliaux  were  composed  either  by  nobles  or  by 
bourgeois  rhymesters  for  people  of  their  own  class.  The 
church,  too,  was  not  slow  to  take  advantage  of  the  popularity 
of  this  homely  form,  and  to  use  it  as  a  vehicle  for  religious 
teaching.  When  the  nobles  told  the  story  they  pictured  all 
men  beneath  them  as  clowns  and  fools.  The  bourgeois  on 
the  other  hand  shot  shafts  of  subtle  malice  and  restless  scorn 
at  the  knights  and  the  clergy  of  whose  superiority  they  were 
beginning  to  feel  the  sting.  This  early  literature  shows  the 
esprit  gaulois,  the  "Gallic  spirit"  of  satire,  always  clever  and 
more  often  than  not  good-natured — the  spirit  which  is  a  real 
race  characteristic  and  which  is  as  frequent  and  as  marked 
to-day  as  ever  it  was. 

No  satirist  of  all  the  early  crew  was  sharper  in  his  attacks 
than  RUTEBEUF  of  the  thirteenth  century  whose  tone  may 
be  gathered  from  the  passage  below  on  the  monks. 

*  By  many  a  shift  and  many  a  part 

Live  they  who  know  no  trade  or  art 

To  gain  their  life  in  honest  way, 

Some  clothe  themselves  in  sackcloth  gray, 

And  some,  to  show  the  good  they  do, 

Go  without  shirts  the  whole  year  through. 

•  Translated  by  Walter  Besant. 


46  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

The  Jacobins,  so  rich  at  home, 
Rule  Paris  here,  and  there  rule  Rome; 
Kings  and  Apostles  both  are  they, 
And  year  by  year  still  grows  their  sway. 

For  when  one  dies,  if  in  his  will 
The  order  be  not  mentioned,  still 
His  soul  may  wait  without,  that  so 
The  Order  thus  may  greater  grow. 

There  were  other  popular  literary  forms  at  this  time  such 
as  debates,  ironical  "legacies,"  and  "Bibles,"  which  were 
works  of  much  erudition.  ^Esop's  Fables  were  told  again  in 
groups  called  "Ysopets."  One  of  the  most  pleasing  writers 
of  these  fables  was  MARIE  OF  FRANCE,  a  French  woman  of 
the  twelfth  century  who  lived  long  in  England.  She  left  also 
a  group  of  "lais,"  cheerful  poems,  usually  two  or  three  hun- 
dred lines  long,  chiefly  describing  love  adventures.  One  of 
these,  here  turned  into  prose,  is  called 

THE  LAY  OF  THE  HONEYSUCKLE 

(Translated  from  the  Lays  of  Marie  de  France  by  Eugene  Mason) 

With  a  glad  heart  and  right  good  mind  will  I  tell  the  Lay  that  men  call 
Honeysuckle;  and  that  the  truth  may  be  known  of  all  it  shall  be  told 
as  many  a  minstrel  has  sung  it  to  my  ear,  and  as  the  scribe  hath  written 
it  for  our  delight.  It  is  of  Tristan  and  Isoude,  the  Queen.  It  is  of  a  love 
which  passed  all  other  love,  of  love  from  whence  came  wondrous  sorrow, 
and  whereof  they  died  together  in  the  self-same  day. 

King  Mark  was  sorely  wrath  with  Tristan,  his  sister's  son,  and  bade 
him  avoid  his  realm,  by  reason  of  the  love  he  bore  the  Queen.  So  Tristan 
repaired  to  his  own  land,  and  dwelt  for  a  full  year  in  South  Wales,  where 
he  was  born.  Then  since  he  might  not  come  where  he  would  be,  Tristan 
took  no  heed  to  his  ways,  but  let  his  life  run  waste  to  Death.  Marvel 
not  overmuch  thereat,  for  he  who  loves  beyond  measure  must  ever  be 
sick  in  heart  and  hope,  when  he  may  not  win  according  to  his  wish.  So 
sick  in  heart  and  mind  was  Tristan  that  he  left  his  kingdom,  and  returned 
straight  to  the  realm  of  his  banishment,  because  that  in  Cornwall  dwelt 
the  Queen.  There  he  hid  privily  in  the  deep  forest,  withdrawn  from  the 
eyes  of  men;  only  when  the  evening  was  come,  and  all  things  sought  their 


THE  GREAT  AWAKENING  47 

rest,  he  prayed  the  peasant  and  other  mean  folk  of  that  country,  of  their 
charity  to  grant  him  shelter  for  the  night.  From  the  serf  he  gathered 
tidings  of  the  King.  These  gave  again  to  him  what  they,  in  turn,  had 
taken  from  some  outlawed  knight.  Thus  Tristan  learned  that  when 
Pentecost  was  come  King  Mark  purposed  to  hold  high  court  at  Tintagel, 
and  keep  the  feast  with  pomp  and  revelry;  moreover  that  thither  would 
ride  Isoude,  the  Queen. 

When  Tristan  heard  this  thing  he  rejoiced  greatly,  since  the  Queen 
might  not  adventure  through  the  forest,  except  he  saw  her  with  his  eyes. 
After  the  King  had  gone  his  way,  Tristan  entered  within  the  wood,  and 
sought  the  path  by  which  the  Queen  must  come.  There  he  cut  a  wand 
from  out  a  certain  hazel-tree,  and  having  trimmed  and  peeled  it  of  its 
bark,  with  his  dagger  he  carved  his  name  upon  the  wood.  This  he  placed 
upon  her  road,  for  well  he  knew  that  should  the  Queen  but  mark  his  name 
she  would  bethink  her  of  her  friend.  Thus  had  it  chanced  before.  For 
this  was  the  sum  of  the  writing  set  upon  the  wand,  for  Queen  Isoude's 
heart  alone:  how  that  in  this  wild  place  Tristan  had  lurked  and  waited 
long,  so  that  he  might  look  upon  her  face,  since  without  her  he  was  al- 
ready dead.  Was  it  not  with  them  as  with  the  Honeysuckle  and  the  Hazel 
tree  she  was  passing  by!  So  sweetly  laced  and  taken  were  they  in  one 
close  embrace,  that  thus  they  might  remain  whilst  life  endured.  But 
should  rough  hands  part  so  fond  a  clasping,  the  hazel  would  wither  at  the 
root,  and  the  honeysuckle  must  fail.  Fair  friend,  thus  is  the  case  with 
us,  nor  you  without  me,  nor  I  without  you. 

Now  the  Queen  fared  at  adventure  down  the  forest  path.  She  spied 
the  hazel  wand  set  upon  her  road,  and  well  she  remembered  the  letters 
and  the  name.  She  bade  the  knights  of  her  company  to  draw  rein,  and 
dismount  from  their  palfreys,  so  that  they  might  refresh  themselves  a 
little.  When  her  commandment  was  done  she  withdrew  from  them  a 
space,  and  called  to  her  Brangwaine,  her  maiden,  and  own  familiar  friend. 
Then  she  hastened  within  the  wood,  to  come  on  him  whom  more  she 
loved  than  any  living  soul.  How  great  the  joy  between  these  twain, 
that  once  more  they  might  speak  together  softly,  face  to  face.  Isoude 
showed  him  her  delight.  She  showed  in  what  fashion  she  strove  to  bring 
peace  and  concord  betwixt  Tristan  and  the  King,  and  how  grievously 
his  banishment  had  weighed  upon  her  heart.  Thus  sped  the  hour,  till 
it  was  time  for  them  to  part;  but  when  these  lovers  freed  them  from  the 
other's  arms,  the  tears  were  wet  upon  their  cheeks.  So  Tristan  returned 
to  Wales,  his  own  realm,  even  as  his  uncle  bade.  But  for  the  joy  that  he 
had  had  of  her,  his  friend,  for  her  sweet  face,  and  for  the  tender  words 
that  she  had  spoken,  yea,  and  for  that  writing  upon  the  wand,  to  re- 


48  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

member  all  these  things,  Tristan,  that  cunning  harper,  wrought  a  new 
Lay,  as  shortly  I  have  told  you.  Goatleaf,  men  call  this  song  in  English. 
Chevrefeuille  it  is  named  in  French;  but  Goatleaf  or  Honeysuckle,  here 
you  have  the  very  truth  in  the  Lay  that  I  have  spoken. 

Of  a  strongly  didactic  turn  were  the  Chastisements  which 
discussed,  usually  with  severity,  man's  faults  and  foibles. 
Walter  Besant  translates  the  following  from  a  thirteenth 
century 

CHASTISEMENT  OF  WOMEN 

"Love  is  a  free  and  a  lawless  thing, 
Love  fears  neither  count  nor  king; 
Quails  not  for  glittering  sword  and  steel, 
Nor  flaming  tortures  fears  to  feel. 
Dreads  not  waters  deep  and  black, 
Not  the  whole  world  turns  him  back; 
Little  cares  he  for  father  or  mother, 
Little  looks  he  for  sister  or  brother. 
Fears  not  low,  nor  stoops  to  high, 
Nor  thinks  it  any  dread  to  die. 
Love  cares  nought  for  buckler  and  spear, 
For  bar  and  bolt  he  will  not  fear; 
Loves  makes  lances  shiver  and  break, 
Love  makes  horses  stumble  and  shake; 
Love  invents  the  tourney's  fray, 
Love  makes  people  happy  and  gay; 
Love  ennobles  gallantry, 
Love  hates  rude  discourtesy; 
Love  an  endless  song  uplifts, 
Love  is  loaded  with  precious  gifts; 
Love  hates  slothful  idleness, 
Love  makes  generous  largesse; 
Love  makes  cowards  of  brave  and  bold, 
Love  makes  misers  lavish  their  gold; 
Love  makes  peace,  and  love  makes  war, 
Love  makes  all  the  locks  unbar; 
Love  strikes  many  a  gallant  blow, 
Love  descends  from  high  to  low; 


THE  GREAT  AWAKENING  49 

Love  mounts  up  from  low  to  high, 
Nothing  too  great  for  love  to  try. 
Love  keeps  no  noble  blood  intact, 
Love  suffers  many  a  lawless  act; 
Love  guards  not  oath  or  sacrament, 
Love  despises  chastisement; 
Love  pretends  religious  zeal, 
But  cannot  keep  his  reason  well; 
Love  has  ruined  many  a  marriage, 
Brought  low  many  a  warrior's  courage; 
Love  is  uncertain,  love  is  vain, 
Love  puts  us  all  in  dolour  and  pain; 
Love  is  good,  and  love  is  bad, 
Love  makes  many  a  visage  sad; 
Love  to  many  bringeth  sadness, 
But  to  many  he  bringeth  gladness." 

More  to  the  liking  of  all  the  people  were  the  bestiaires  or 
stories  of  animal  lore  which  came  West  with  the  Aryan  im-. 
migration  and  entered  into  the  literatures  of  all  peoples  of 
Germanic  descent.  In  America  we  have  the  same  thing  in 
the  "Uncle  Remus  Stories,"  for  which,  however,  we  are  in- 
debted not  to  any  Saxon  or  Teutonic  ancestors,  but  to  the 
Africans,  our  enforced  colonists.  These  animal  stories  of  the 
middle  ages  were  really  tales  holding  up  to  ridicule  the  faults 
and  foibles  of  men  disguised  under  the  names  of  the  beasts 
of  the  field  and  the  forest.  There  were  many  of  them,  but 
none  to  compare  in  strength  or  subtlety  or  form  with  "  Renard 
the  Fox" — or  indeed  in  length,  for  in  the  course  of  the  three 
centuries  of  its  growth  it  grew  to  the  stupendous  size  of 
320,000  lines.  In  "Renard  the  Fox"  are  united  the  animal 
stories  and  the  fabliaux  of  democratic  spirit.  Its  tone  had 
been  touched  in  the  eleventh  century  by  Wace,  who  in  his 
"Roman  de  Rou"  makes  the  rebellious  peasants  of  Laon 
who  had  burned  the  palaces  of  the  barons  and  had  slain  the 
bishop,  say  of  themselves  and  of  their  masters, 

"We  are  men  as  they  arc,  such  limbs  as  they  have  we  have,  we  have 


50  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

bodies  as  large  as  theirs,  and  we  can  endure  as  much  as  they.  Nothing 
fails  us  except  courage.  Let  us  bind  ourselves  by  an  oath,  and  defend 
our  property  and  ourselves.  Let  us  band  ourselves  together,  and  if  they 
want  to  fight  we  can  oppose  to  every  Knight  thirty  or  forty  peasants, 
vigorous  and  strong  to  fight." 

A  passage  in  "  Aucassin  and  Nicolete  "  describes  with  entire 
sympathy  a  peasant's  misfortunes.  "  RENARD  THE  Fox  "  had 
plenty  of  time  in  the  three  centuries  of  its  creation,  the 
twelfth,  thirteenth,  and  fourteenth,  to  discuss  almost  every 
phase  of  life,  every  social  aspect,  every  occupation,  every 
class  foible.  The  caste  of  animals  includes  Noble  the  lion, 
the  king,  Brun  the  Bear,  king's  counsellor,  Ysengrin  the 
wolf,  a  lord,  Bernart  the  ass,  an  arch-priest,  Tybert  the  cat, 
a  friar,  Rossel  the  squirrel,  a  page,  and  the  monkey  who  is  a 
jongleur,  making  jests  and  cutting  capers  to  amuse  the  rest. 
With  all  these  and  still  other  characters  on  the  stage  it  is  easy 
to  see  that  all  mediaeval  life  may  be  played  to  the  delight  of 
the  reader.  "  Renard  "  is  preeminently  the  epic  of  the  people, 
the  bourgeois  against  the  nobility.  The  Fox  (the  bourgeois), 
weak  but  crafty,  meets  one  after  another  the  animals  of  the 
forest,  and  invariably  gets  the  better  of  the  strong  (the 
nobility)  through  his  readiness  of  wit.  The  verses  do  not 
hesitate  at  anything.  They  burlesque  church  services,  they 
pierce  the  pious  pretensions  of  the  nobles  who  go  to  the 
crusades  for  their  own  profit,  and  they  build  up  a  typical 
hypocrisy  which  crops  out  at  intervals  in  all  French  literature. 
In  the  depiction  of  this  "renardie"  ("foxiness,"  hypocrisy) 
Moliere's  "Tartuffe"  is  the  most  shining  example. 

In  the  extracts  given  below  the  story  of  Renard's  trial  for 
the  murder  of  the  hen,  Dame  Copee,  and  of  her  burial  and  of 
the  miracles  performed  at  her  grave,  gives  an  opportunity 
for  a  burlesque  of  the  customs  and  superstitions  of  the  day. 

Renard  is  already  in  trouble  and  has  appeared  before 
Noble,  the  lion,  and  the  other  assembled  animals. 


THE  GREAT  AWAKENING  51 

Renard  would  have  gotten  himself  out  of  this  difficulty  if  it  had  not 
been  for  Chantecler  and  Pinte,  she  the  fifth  of  her  family,  who  came  be- 
fore the  king  to  lay  a  charge  against  Renard.  The  fire  is  hard  to  put  out 
now,  for  Sire  Chantecler,  the  cock,  and  Pinte,  who  lays  large  eggs,  and 
Black  and  White,  and  Reddy  were  dragging  a  little  wagon  with  drawn 
curtains.  Within  lay  a  hen  whom  they  carried  on  a  litter  like  a  bier. 
Renard  had  so  maltreated  her,  and  had  so  torn  her  with  his  teeth  that 
he  had  broken  her  thigh  and  torn  a  wing  from  her  body. 

[The  escort  cry  for  justice,  Dame  Pinte  declaring  that  Renard  had  de- 
voured all  four  of  her  sisters.  Overcome  by  the  vigor  of  her  appeal  she 
falls  in  a  swoon  upon  the  ground  and  so  do  all  the  rest.] 

To  succor  the  four  ladies,  dogs,  wolves  and  other  animals  rise  from  their 
seats  and  throw  water  on  their  heads.  [When  they  regain  their  senses 
they  prostrate  themselves  before  the  king  who  expresses  every  sympathy 
with  them  and  declares  himself  ready  to  avenge  them  upon  Renard.] 

When  Ysengrin  [the  wolf,  Renard's  eternal  enemy]  hears  the  king 
he  rises  quickly:  "Sire,"  he  says,  "it  is  a  valiant  act  on  your  part.  You 
will  be  praised  everywhere  if  you  will  avenge  Dame  Pinte  and  her  sister 
Dame  Cop£e  whom  Renard  has  thus  maimed.  I  do  not  speak  from  hatred 
but  I  say  it  in  behalf  of  the  young  lady  whom  he  killed,  for  God  forbid 
that  I  do  anything  out  of  hatred  for  Renard!" 

[The  emperor  declares  his  own  displeasure  at  Renard's  behavior,  and 
then  gives  orders  for  the  burial  of  Dame  Cop£e.] 

"Sire  Brun  [bear],  take  the  stole,  and  you,  Sire  Bellower  [the  bull] 
commend  to  God  the  soul  of  this  body.  Up  there  in  that  field  dig  me  a 
grave  between  the  meadow  and  the  garden.  Then  we  will  turn  to  other 
business." 

"Sire,"  said  Brun,  "I  obey  your  pleasure."  Then  he  went  and  put 
on  the  stole,  and  not  only  he  but  at  the  same  time  the  king  and  all  the 
other  members  of  the  council  began  to  chant  the  vigils.  Sire  Tardif 
[Slow]  the  Snail,  sang  three  lessons  for  the  dead  hen.  It  was  Roonel 
[the  mastiff]  who  intoned  the  verses  accompanied  by  Brichemer  [the  stag]; 
and  Brun  the  bear  repeated  the  prayer  that  God  may  keep  the  soul  from 
prison. 

When  the  vigils  were  sung  and  the  meeting  had  come  to  a  close  they 
carried  away  the  body  to  bury  it.  But  first  they  enclosed  it  in  a  hand- 
some leaden  coffin.  Never  was  richer  seen !  Then  they  buried  it  under  a 
tree  and  over  it  erected  a  stone.  On  it  they  inscribed  the  lady's  name 
and  her  position,  and  commended  her  soul:  I  do  not  know  whether  it 
was  done  with  chisel  or  brush.  They  made  no  absurd  eulogy;  they  placed 
an  epitaph  under  the  tree  at  a  suitable  spot: 


52  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

"Here  lies  Cop£e,  sister  of  Pintain, 
according  to  an  arrangement  made 
this  morning  by  Renard  who  rules  each 
day:  with  his  teeth  he  brought  to  pass 
this  cruel  martyrdom." 

Whoever  saw  Pintain  weeping  then  must  have  cursed  Renard  and  con- 
signed him  to  the  infernal  regions;  whoever  saw  Chantecler  stretch  forth 
his  feet  must  have  felt  great  pity  for  him. 

When  the  interment  was  over  and  the  mourning  began  to  abate  the 
barons  cried:  "Emperor,  avenge  us  upon  this  glutton  who  has  done  so 
many  treacherous  acts  and  so  often  has  broken  the  peace!"  "I  want  to," 
said  the  Emperor.  "Go  now,  Brun,  fair,  sweet  brother,  you  have  no 
affection  for  him.  Tell  Renard  from  me  that  I  have  waited  for  him  three 
whole  days."  "Willingly,  Sire,"  said  Brun.  Then  he  ambled  through  a 
cultivated  valley  without  sitting  down  or  resting. 

During  his  absence  there  happened  at  the  court  a  circumstance  which 
made  Renard's  case  much  worse.  Cope'e  did  great  miracles.  Messire 
Couard,  the  hare,  who  had  been  shaking  with  the  fever  of  fear  for  two 
days  running,  by  the  grace  of  God  was  cured  of  it  at  Dame  Copee's  tomb. 
For  he  never  wished  to  leave  the  spot  where  she  was  buried,  and  slept 
upon  the  martyr's  tomb.  And  when  Ysengrin  heard  it  he  said  that  she 
was  really  a  martyr  and  he  declared  that  he  had  an  earache.  Roonel, 
who  was  his  adviser,  made  him  lie  down  on  the  tomb,  and  then  he  pro- 
nounced him  cured. 

[Renard  is  sentenced  to  be  hanged,  but  the  King  gives  him  his  life  on 
condition  that  he  take  the  cross  and  go  on  a  pilgrimage,  only  he  must 
never  return,  "for,"  says  the  lion,  "those  who  are  good  when  they  go 
away  are  bad  when  they  come  back."  Renard  consents,  for  he  knows 
how  to  escape  the  punishment.] 

Beginning  with  pure  religious  enthusiasm  and  ending  in  a 
sordid  exhibition  of  personal  greed  the  Crusades  nevertheless 
brought  to  Europe  an  awakening  which  may  well  be  called  a 
miracle  and  a  blessing.  In  the  East  the  semi-civilized,  stay- 
at-home  crusaders  who  had  been  shut  up  for  generations  with 
the  unstimulating  companionship  of  selfish  broils,  came  in 
contact  with  a  civilization  rich  in  artistic  production  of  all 
sorts.  When  the  westerners  returned  to  France  they  set  about 
making  their  own  country  fair.  Great  cathedrals  were  be- 


THE  GREAT  AWAKENING  53 

gun,  and  before  the  end  of  the  twelfth  century  Paris  was 
practically  rebuilt  in  the  aspiring  style  that  had  come  to  be 
known  as  Gothic.  Sculpture  was  wedded  to  architecture. 
Of  painting  there  was  little;  the  desire  for  color  took  form  in 
the  illumination  of  manuscripts,  and  in  windows  of  glorious 
glass  which  made  magnificent  the  transepts  and  chancels  and 
naves  of  the  churches  that  sent  their  arrow-like  spires  toward 
the  skies.  Literature  was  an  inferior  artistic  expression  at 
this  time,  yet  the  desire  for  knowledge  drove  men  to  take  long 
strides.  The  eloquence  of  Abelard,  remembered  to-day  for 
his  love  for  Heloise  rather  than  for  his  teaching,  had  stirred 
an  intellectual  as  well  as  moral  response  in  his  hearers  of  the 
eleventh  century.  In  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries 
his  successors,  among  whom  were  Duns  Scotus  and  Roger 
Bacon,  led  the  thinking  world  in  their  discussions  of  theology, 
philosophy,  and  science. 

Philip  Augustus  founded  the  University  at  Paris;  and 
many  others  were  established  in  the  provinces.  Under 
Saint  Louis  the  Sorbonne  came  into  being.  Students  flocked 
to  France  from  the  whole  of  Europe.  It  was  a  time  of  in- 
tellectual activity,  before  the  vigorous,  simple,  self-believing 
days  of  feudalism  degenerated  and  carried  down  with  them 
their  vigorous,  independent  thought. 

Almost  symbolic  of  this  simple  past  is  VILLEHARDOUIN 
(1155-1215),  whose  chronicles  were  the  first  original  prose 
productions  in  French.  He  narrates  events  which  he  him- 
self had  seen,  touching  them  with  small  comment  and  drawing 
no  conclusions,  though  his  descriptions  are  lively  and  amus- 
ing. He  is  the  historian  of  the  Fourth  Crusade,  that  early 
thirteenth  century  expedition  of  the  soldiers  of  the  cross 
which  never  reached  the  Holy  Land  but  spent  its  strength  in 
the  conquest  of  Constantinople.  Says  the  chronicler: 

After  Easter  and  towards  Whitsuntide  (June,  1202)  began  the  pil- 
grims to  leave  their  own  country.  So  they  journeyed  through  Burgundy, 


54  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

and  by  the  mountains  of  Mont-Joux  by  Montcenis,  and  through  Lom- 
bardy,  and  began  to  assemble  at  Venice. 

THE  PILGRIMS   LACK   MONEY   WHEREWITH   TO  PAY  THE   VENETIANS 

*  Thus  did  Count  Lewis  and  the  other  barons  wend  their  way  to  Venice; 
and  they  were  there  received  with  feasting  and  joyfully,  and  took  lodg- 
ing in  the  Island  of  St.  Nicholas  with  those  who  had  come  before.  Goodly 
was  the  host,  and  right  worthy  were  the  men.  Never  did  man  see  good- 
lier or  worthier.  And  the  Venetians  held  a  market,  rich  and  abundant, 
of  all  things  needful  for  horses  and  men.  And  the  fleet  they  had  got  ready 
was  so  goodly  and  fine  that  never  did  Christian  man  see  one  goodlier 
or  finer;  as  well  galleys  as  transports,  and  sufficient  for  at  least  three 
times  as  many  men  as  were  in  the  host. 

Ah!  the  grievous  harm  and  loss  when  those  who  should  have  come 
thither  sailed  instead  from  other  ports!  Right  well,  if  they  had  kept 
their  tryst,  would  Christendom  have  been  exalted,  and  the  land  of  the 
Turks  abased!  The  Venetians  had  fulfilled  all  their  undertakings,  and 
above  measure,  and  they  now  summoned  the  barons  and  counts  to  fulfil 
theirs  and  make  payment,  since  they  were  ready  to  start. 

The  cost  of  each  man's  passage  was  now  levied  throughout  the  host; 
and  there  were  people  enough  who  said  they  could  not  pay  for  their 
passage,  and  the  barons  took  from  them  such  moneys  as  they  had.  So 
each  man  paid  what  he  could.  When  the  barons  had  thus  claimed  the 
cost  of  the  passages,  and  when  the  payments  had  been  collected,  the 
moneys  came  to  less  than  the  sum  due— yea,  by  more  than  one  half. 

Then  the  barons  met  together  and  said:  "Lords,  the  Venetians  have 
well  fulfilled  all  their  undertakings,  and  above  measure.  But  we  cannot 
fulfil  ours  in  paying  for  our  passages,  seeing  we  are  too  few  in  number; 
and  this  is  the  fault  of  those  who  have  journeyed  by  other  ports.  For 
God's  sake  therefore  let  each  contribute  all  that  he  has,  so  that  we  may 
fulfil  our  covenant;  for  better  is  it  that  we  should  give  all  that  we  have, 
than  lose  what  we  have  already  paid,  and  prove  false  to  our  covenants; 
for  if  this  host  remains  here,  the  rescue  of  the  land  oversea  comes  to 
naught." 

Great  was  then  the  dissension  among  the  main  part  of  the  barons  and 
the  other  folk,  and  they  said:  "We  have  paid  for  our  passages,  and  if 
they  will  take  us,  we  shall  go  willingly;  but  if  not,  we  shall  inquire  and 
look  for  other  means  of  passage."  And  they  spoke  thus  because  they 
wished  that  the  host  should  fall  to  pieces  and  each  return  to  his  own  land. 
But  the  other  party  said,  "Much  rather  would  we  give  all  that  we  have 
and  go  penniless  with  the  host,  than  that  the  host  should  fall  to  pieces 
and  fail;  for  God  will  doubtless  repay  us  when  it  so  pleases  Him." 

Then  the  Count  of  Flanders  began  to  give  all  that  he  had  and  all  that 
he  could  borrow,  and  so  did  Count  Lewis,  and  the  Marquis,  and  the  Count 
of  Saint-Paul,  and  those  who  were  of  their  party.  Then  might  you  have 
seen  many  a  fine  vessel  of  gold  and  silver  borne  in  payment  to  the  palace 
of  the  Doge.  And  when  all  had  been  brought  together,  there  was  still 
wanting,  of  the  sum  required,  34,000  marks  of  silver.  Then  those  who 

*  From  the  translation  by  Sir  Frank  Marzials. 


THE  GREAT  AWAKENING  55 

had  kept  back  their  possessions  and  not  brought  them  into  the  common 
stock,  were  right  glad,  for  they  thought  now  surely  the  host  must  fail 
and  go  to  pieces.  But  God,  who  advises  those  who  have  been  ill-advised, 
would  not  so  suffer  it. 

THE  CRUSADERS  OBTAIN  A  RESPITE  BY  PROMISING  TO  HELP  THE  VENETIANS 
AGAINST  ZARA 

Then  the  Doge  spoke  to  his  people,  and  said  unto  them:  "Signers, 
these  people  cannot  pay  more;  and  in  so  far  as  they  have  paid  at  all,  we 
have  benefited  by  an  agreement  which  they  cannot  now  fulfil.  But  our 
right  to  keep  this  money  would  not  everywhere  be  acknowledged;  and 
if  we  so  kept  it  we  should  be  greatly  blamed,  both  us  and  our  land.  Let 
us  therefore  offer  them  terms. 

"The  King  of  Hungary  has  taken  from  us  Zara  in  Sclavonia,  which 
is  one  of  the  strongest  places  in  the  world;  and  never  shall  we  recover 
it  with  all  the  power  that  we  possess,  save  with  the  help  of  these  people. 
Let  us  therefore  ask  them  to  help  us  to  reconquer  it,  and  we  will  remit 
the  payment  of  the  debt  of  34,000  marks  of  silver,  until  such  time  as  it 
shall  please  God  to  allow  us  to  gain  the  moneys  by  conquest,  we  and  they 
together."  Thus  was  agreement  made.  Much  was  it  contested  by  those 
who  wished  that  the  host  should  be  broken  up.  Nevertheless  the  agree- 
ment was  accepted  and  ratified. 

THE  DOGE  AND  A  NUMBER  OF  VENETIANS  TAKE  THE  CROSS 

Then,  on  a  Sunday,  was  assemblage  held  in  the  Church  of  St.  Mark. 
It  was  a  very  high  festival,  and  the  people  of  the  land  were  there,  and 
the  most  part  of  the  barons  and  pilgrims. 

Before  the  beginning  of  High  Mass,  the  Doge  of  Venice,  who  bore  the 
name  of  Henry  Dandolo,  went  up  into  the  reading-desk,  and  spoke  to 
the  people,  and  said  to  them:  " Signers,  you  are  associated  with  the  most 
worthy  people  in  the  world,  and  for  the  highest  enterprise  ever  under- 
taken; and  I  am  a  man  old  and  feeble,  who  should  have  need  of  rest, 
and  I  am  sick  in  body;  but  I  see  that  no  one  could  command  and  lead 
you  like  myself,  who  am  your  lord.  If  you  will  consent  that  I  take  the 
sign  of  the  cross  to  guard  and  direct  you,  and  that  my  son  remain  in  my 
place  to  guard  the  land,  then  shall  I  go  to  live  or  die  with  you  and  with 
the  pilgrims." 

And  when  they  had  heard  him,  they  cried  with  one  voice:  "We  pray 
you  by  God  that  you  consent,  and  do  it,  and  that  you  come  with  us!" 

Very  great  was  then  the  pity  and  compassion  on  the  part  of  the  people 
of  the  land  and  of  the  pilgrims;  and  many  were  the  tears  shed,  because 
that  worthy  and  good  man  would  have  had  so  much  reason  to  remain 
behind,  for  he  was  an  old  man,  and  albeit  his  eyes  were  unclouded,  yet 
he  saw  naught,  having  lost  his  sight  through  a  wound  in  the  head.  He 
was  of  a  great  heart.  Ah!  how  little  like  him  were  those  who  had  gone 
to  other  ports  to  escape  the  danger. 

Thus  he  came  down  from  the  reading-desk,  and  went  before  the  altar, 
and  knelt  upon  his  knees  greatly  weeping.  And  they  sewed  the  cross 
on  to  a  great  cotton  hat,  which  he  wore,  in  front,  because  he  wished  that 


5  6  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

all  men  should  see  it.  And  the  Venetians  began  to  take  the  cross  in 
great  numbers,  a  great  multitude,  for  up  to  that  day  very  few  had  taken 
the  cross.  Our  pilgrims  had  much  joy  in  the  cross  that  the  Doge  took, 
and  were  greatly  moved,  because  of  the  wisdom  and  the  valour  that  were 
in  him. 

Thus  did  the  Doge-  take  the  cross,  as  you  have  heard.  Then  the 
Venetians  began  to  deliver  the  ships,  the  galleys,  and  the  transports 
to  the  barons,  for  departure;  but  so  much  time  had  already  been  spent 
since  the  appointed  term,  that  September  drew  near  (1202). 

THE  CRUSADERS  LEAVE  VENICE  TO  BESIEGE  ZARA 

Then  were  the  ships  and  transports  apportioned  by  the  barons.  Ah, 
God!  what  fine  war-horses  were  put  therein.  And  when  the  ships  were 
fulfilled  with  arms  and  provisions,  and  knights  and  sergeants,  the  shields 
were  ranged  round  the  bulwarks  and  castles  of  the  ships,  and  the  banners 
displayed,  many  and  fair. 

And  be  it  known  to  you  that  the  vessels  carried  more  than  three  hun- 
dred petraries  and  mangonels,  and  all  such  engines  as  are  needed  for  the 
taking  of  cities,  in  great  plenty.  Never  did  finer  fleet  sail  from  any  port. 
And  this  was  in  the  octave  of  the  Feast  of  St.  Remigius  (October)  in  the 
year  of  the  Incarnation  of  Jesus  Christ  twelve  hundred  and  two.  Thus 
did  they  sail  from  the  port  of  Venice,  as  you  have  been  told. 

On  the  Eve  of  St.  Martin  (loth  November)  they  came  before  Zara 
in  Sclavonia,  and  beheld  the  city  enclosed  by  high  walls  and  high  towers; 
and  vainly  would  you  have  sought  for  a  fairer  city,  or  one  of  greater 
strength,  or  richer.  And  when  the  pilgrims  saw  it,  they  marvelled  greatly, 
and  said  one  to  another,  "How  could  such  a  cityi>e  taken  by  force,  save 
by  the  help  of  God  himself?" 

The  first  ships  that  came  before  the  city  cast  anchor,  and  waited  for 
the  others;  and  in  the  morning  the  day  was  very  fine  and  very  clear,  and 
all  the  galleys  came  up  with  the  transports,  and  the  other  ships  which 
were  behind}  and  they  took -the  port  by  force,  and  broke  the  chain  that 
defended  it  and  was  very  strong  and  well-wrought;  and  they  landed  in 
such  sort  that  the  port  was  between  them  and  the  town.  Then  might 
you  have  seen  many  a  knight  and  many  a  sergeant  swarming  out  of  the 
ships,  and  taking  from  the  transports  many  a  good  war-horse,  and  many 
a  rich  tent  and  many  a  pavilion.  Thus  did  the  host  encamp.  And  Zara 
was  besieged  on  St.  Martin's  Day  (nth  November  1202). 

THE  INHABITANTS  OF  ZARA  OFFER  TO  CAPITULATE,  AND  THEN  DRAW 
BACK — ZARA  IS  TAKEN 

On  the  day  following  the  feast  of  St.  Martin,  certain  of  the  people  of 
Zara  came  forth,  and  spoke  to  the  Doge  of  Venice,  who  was  in  his  pavilion, 
and  said  to  him  that  they  would  yield  up  the  city  and  all  their  goods — 
their  lives  being  spared — to  his  mercy.  And  the  Doge  replied  that  he 
would  not  accept  these  conditions,  nor  any  conditions,  save  by  consent 
of  the  counts  and  barons,  with  whom  he  would  go  and  confer. 

While  he  went  to  confer  with  the  counts  and  barons,  that  party,  of 
whom  you  have  already  heard,  who  wished  to  disperse  the  host,  spoke 


THE  GREAT  AWAKENING  57 

to  the  envoys  and 'said,  "Why  should  you  surrender  your  city?  The 
pilgrims  will  not  attack  you — have  no  care  of  them.  If  you  can  defend 
yourselves  against  the  Venetians,  you  will  be  safe  enough."  And  they 
chose  one  of  themselves,  whose  name  was  Robert  of  Boves,  who  went 
to  the  walls  of  the  city,  and  spoke  the  same  words.  Therefore  the  envoys 
returned  to  the  city,  and  the  negotiations  were  broken  off. 

The  Doge  of  Venice,  when  he  came  to  the  counts  and  barons,  said  to 
them:  "Signers,  the  people  who  are  therein  desire  to  yield  the  city  to  my 
mercy,  on  condition  only  that  their  lives  are  spared.  But  I  will  enter  into 
no  agreement  with  them — neither  this  nor  any  other — save  with  your 
consent."  And  the  barons  answered:  "Sire,  we  advise  you  to  accept 
these  conditions,  and  we  even  beg  of  you  so  to  do."  He  said  he  would 
do  so;  and  they  all  returned  together  to  the  pavilion  of  the  Doge  to  make 
the  agreement,  and  found  that  the  envoys  had  gone  away  by  the  advice 
of  those  who  wished  to  disperse  the  host. 

Then  rose  the  abbot  of  Vaux,  of  the  order  of  the  Cistercians,  and  said 
to  them:  "Lords,  I  forbid  you,  on  the  part  of  the  Pope  of  Rome,  to  attack 
this  city;  for  those  within  it  are  Christians,  and  you  are  pilgrims."  When 
the  Doge  heard  this,  he  was  very  wroth,  and  much  disturbed,  and  he 
said  to  the  counts  and  barons:  "Signers,  I  had  this  city,  by  their  own 
agreement,  at  my  mercy,  and  your  people  have  broken  that  agreement; 
you  have  covenanted  to  help  me  to  Conquer  it,  and  I  summon  you 
to  do  so." 

Whereon  the  counts  and  barons  all  spoke  at  once,  together  with  those 
who  were  of  their  party,  and  said:  "  Great  is  the  outrage  of  those  who  have 
caused  this  agreement  to  be  broken,  and  never  a  day  has  passed  that 
they  have  not  tried  to  break  up  the  host.  Now  are  we  shamed  if  we  do 
not  help  to  take  the  city."  And  they  came  to  the  Doge,  and  said:  "Sire, 
we  will  help  you  to  take  the  city  in  despite  of  those  who  would  let  and 
hinder  us." 

Thus  was  the  decision  taken.  The  next  morning  the  host  encamped 
before  the  gates  of  the  city,  and  set  up  their  petraries  and  mangonels, 
and  other  engines  of  war,  which  they  had  in  plenty,  and  on  the  side  of 
the  sea  they  raised  ladders  from  the  ships.  Then  they  began  to  throw 
stones  at  the  walls  of  the  city  and  at  the  towers.  So  did  the  assault 
last  for  about  five  days.  Then  were  the  sappers  set  to  mine  one  of  the 
towers,  and  began  to  sap  the  wall.  When  those  within  the  city  saw  this, 
they  proposed  an  agreement,  such  as  they  had  before  refused  by  the 
advice  of  those  who  wished  to  break  up  the  host. 

About  a  century  later  DE  JOINVILLE,  seneschal  of  Cham- 
pagne, wrote  in  his  old  age  a  volume  of  recollections  of 
Louis  IX.  He  went  with  the  King  upon  the  Crusade  of  1248, 
and  he  tells  with  the  directness  and  charm  of  a  simple  nature 
the  experiences  of  the  expedition  as  they  touched  his  com- 
panions and  especially  his  master.  Louis  was  his  friend  as 
well  as  his  sovereign  and  their  relation  was  one  of  frankness 


58  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

and  affection.    In  the  beginning  of  his  Chronicle  De  Joinville 
describes 

THE  PRINCIPAL  VIRTUES   OF   ST.   LEWIS 

*  In  the  name  of  God  Almighty,  I,  John,  Lord  of  Joinville,  seneschal 
of  Champagne,  dictate  the  life  of  our  holy  King  Lewis;  that  which  I  saw 
and  heard  by  the  space  of  six  years  that  I  was  in  his  company  on  pil- 
grimage oversea,  and  that  which  I  saw  and  heard  after  we  returned. 
And  before  I  tell  you  of  his  great  deeds,  and  of  his  prowess,  I  will  tell 
you  what  I  saw  and  heard  of  his  good  teachings  and  of  his  holy  words, 
so  that  these  may  be  found  here  set  in  order  for  the  edifying  of  those  who 
shall  hear  thereof. 

This  holy  man  loved  God  with  all  his  heart,  and  followed  Him  in  His 
acts;  and  this  appeared  in  that,  as  God  died  for  the  love  He  bore  His 
people,  so  did  the  king  put  his  body  in  peril,  and  that  several  times,  for 
the  love  he  bore  to  his  people;  and  such  peril  he  might  well  have  avoided, 
as  you  shall  be  told  hereafter. 

The  great  love  that  he  bore  to  his  people  appeared  in  what  he  said 
during  a  very  sore  sickness  that  he  had  at  Fontainebleau,  unto  my  Lord 
Lewis,  his  eldest  son.  "Fair  son,"  he  said,  "I  pray  thee  to  make  thy- 
self beloved  of  the  people  of  thy  kingdom;  for  truly  I  would  rather  that 
a  Scot  should  come  out  of  Scotland  and  govern  the  people  of  the  kingdom 
well  and  equitably  than  that  thou  shouldest  govern  it  ill  in  the  sight  of 
all  men."  The  holy  king  so  loved  truth,  that,  as  you  shall  hear  hereafter, 
he  would  never  consent  to  lie  to  the  Saracens  as  to  any  covenant  that 
he  had  made  with  them. 

Of  his  mouth  he  was  so  sober,  that  on  no  day  of  my  life  did  I  ever  hear 
him  order  special  meats,  as  many  rich  men  are  wont  to  do;  but  he  ate 
patiently  whatever  his  cooks  had  made  ready,  and  was  set  before  him. 
In  his  words  he  was  temperate;  for  on  no  day  of  my  life  did  I  ever  hear 
him  speak  evil  of  any  one;  nor  did  I  ever  hear  him  name  the  Devil — 
which  name  is  very  commonly  spoken  throughout  the  kingdom,  whereby 
God,  as  I  believe,  is  not  well  pleased. 

He  put  water  into  his  wine  by  measure,  according  as  he  saw  that  the 
strength  of  the  wine  would  suffer  it.  At  Cyprus  he  asked  me  why  I  put 
no  water  into  my  wine;  and  I  said  this  was  by  order  of  the  physicians, 
who  told  me  I  had  a  large  head  and  a  cold  stomach,  so  that  I  could  not 
get  drunk.  And  he  answered  that  they  deceived  me;  for  if  I  did  not 
learn  to  put  water  into  my  wine  in  my  youth,  and  wished  to  do  so  in  my 
old  age,  gout  and  diseases  of  the  stomach  would  take  hold  upon  me,  and 
I  should  never  be  in  health;  and  if  I  drank  pure  wine  in  my  old  age,  I 
should  get  drunk  every  night,  and  that  it  was  too  foul  a  thing  for  a  brave 
man  to  get  drunk. 

He  asked  me  if  I  wished  to  be  honoured  in  this  world,  and  to  go  into 
paradise  at  my  death?  And  I  said,  "Yes."  And  he  said:  "Keep  your- 
self then  from  knowingly  doing  or  saying  anything  which,  if  the  whole 
world  heard  thereof,  you  would  be  ashamed  to  acknowledge,  saying 
'I  did  this,'  or  'I  said  that.'"  He  told  me  to  beware  not  to  contradict 

*  From  the  translation  by  Sir  Frank  Marzials. 


THE  GREAT  AWAKENING  59 

or  impugn  anything  that  was  said  before  me — unless  indeed  silence  would 
be  a  sin  or  to  my  own  hurt — because  hard  words  often  move  to  quarrel- 
ling, wherein  men  by  the  thousand  have  found  death. 

He  said  that  men  ought  to  clothe  and  arm  their  bodies  in  such  wise 
that  men  of  worth  and  age  would  never  say,  this  man  has  done  too  much, 
nor  young  men  say,  this  man  has  done  too  little.  And  I  repeated  this 
saying  to  the  father  of  the  king  that  now  is,  when  speaking  of  the  em- 
broidered coats  of  arms  that  are  made  nowadays;  and  I  told  him  that 
never,  during  our  voyage  oversea,  had  I  seen  embroidered  coats,  either 
belonging  to  the  king  or  to  any  one  else.  And  the  king  that  now  is  told 
me  that  he  had  such  suits,  with  arms  embroidered,  as  had  cost  him  eight 
hundred  pounds  parisis.  And  I  told  him  he  would  have  employed  the 
money  to  better  purpose  if  he  had  given  it  to  God,  and  had  had  his  suits 
made  of  good  taffeta  (satin)  ornamented  with  his  arms,  as  his  father  had 
done. 

BIRTH   AND  CORONATION   OF  ST.   LEWIS 

In  the  name  of  God  Almighty,  we  have,  hereinbefore,  written  out  a 
part  of  the  good  words  and  of  the  good  teachings  of  our  saintly  King 
Lewis,  so  that  those  who  read  may  find  them  set  in  order,  the  one  after 
the  other,  and  thus  derive  more  profit  therefrom  than  if  they  were  set 
forth  among  his  deeds.  And  from  this  point  we  begin,  in  the  name  of 
God  and  in  his  own  name,  to  speak  of  his  deeds. 

As  I  have  heard  tell  he  was  born  on  the  day  of  St.  Mark  the  Evangel- 
ist, after  Easter  (25th  April  1214).  On  that  day  crosses  are,  in  many 
places,  carried  in  procession,  and,  in  France,  these  are  called  black  crosses; 
and  this  was  as  it  were  a  prophecy  of  the  great  number  of  people  who  were 
to  die  in  the  two  Crusades,  viz.,  that  of  Egypt,  and  the  other,  in  which 
he  himself  died,  at  Carthage,  whereby  there  were  great  mournings  in 
this  world,  and  many  great  rejoicings  in  paradise  for  such  as  in  these 
two  pilgrimages  died  true  Crusaders. 

He  was  crowned  on  the  first  Sunday  in  Advent  (2Qth  November,  1 226). 
The  beginning  of  the  mass  for  that  Sunday  runs:  Ad  te  levavi  animam 
meant,  and  what  follows  after;  and  this  means,  "Fair  Lord  God,  I  shall 
lift  up  my  soul  to  thee,  I  put  my  confidence  in  thee."  In  God  had  he 
great  confidence  from  his  childhood  to  his  death;  for  when  he  died,  in 
his  last  words,  he  called  upon  God  and  His  saints,  and  specially  upon 
my  lord  St.  James  and  my  lady  St.  Genevi£ve. 

When  the  King  took  the  cross  his  lords  followed  his  example  in  great 
numbers.  The  chronicler  tells 

HOW  THE  CRUSADERS   EMBARK,   AUGUST,    1248 

In  the  month  of  August  we  entered  into  our  ship  at  the  Rochc-de- 
Marseille.  On  the  day  that  we  entered  into  our  ship,  they  opened  the 
door  of  the  ship  and  put  therein  all  the  horses  we  were  to  take  oversea; 
and  then  they  reclosed  the  door,  and  caulked  it  well,  as  when  a  cask  is 
sunk  in  water,  because,  when  the  ship  is  on  the  high  seas,  all  the  said 
door  is  under  water. 

When  the  horses  were  in  the  ship,  our  master  mariner  called  to  his 


60  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

seamen,  who  stood  at  the  prow,  and  said:  "Are  you  ready?"  and  they 
answered,  "Aye,  sir — let  the  clerks  and  priests  come  forward!"  As  soon 
as  these  had  come  forward,  he  called  to  them,  "Sing,  for  God's  sake!" 
and  they  all,  with  one  voice,  chanted:  "  Veni  Creator  Spirilus." 

Then  he  cried  to  his  seamen,  "Unfurl  the  sails,  for  God's  sake!"  and 
they  did  so. 

In  a  short  space  the  wind  filled  our  sails  and  had  borne  us  out  of  sight 
of  land,  so  that  we  saw  naught  save  sky  and  water,  and  every  day  the 
wind  carried  us  further  from  the  land  where  we  were  born.  And  these 
things  I  tell  you,  that  you  may  understand  how  foolhardy  is  that  man 
who  dares,  having  other's  chattels  in  his  possession,  or  being  in  mortal 
sin,  to  place  himself  in  such  peril,  seeing  that,  when  you  lie  down  to  sleep 
at  night  on  shipboard,  you  lie  down  not  knowing  whether,  in  the  morning, 
you  may  find  yourself  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

At  sea  a  singular  marvel  befell  us;  for  we  came  across  a  mountain, 
quite  round,  before  the  coast  of  Barbary.  We  came  across  it  about  the 
hour  of  vespers,  and  sailed  all  night,  and  thought  to  have  gone  about 
fifty  leagues;  and,  on  the  morrow,  we  found  ourselves  before  the  same 
mountain;  and  this  same  thing  happened  to  us  some  two  or  three  times. 
When  the  sailors  saw  this,  they  were  all  amazed,  and  told  us  we  were  in 
very  great  peril;  for  we  were  nigh  unto  the  land  of  the  Saracens  of  Bar- 
bary. 

Then  spake  a  certain  right  worthy  priest,  who  was  called  the  Dean 
of  Maurupt;  and  he  told  us  that  never  had  any  mischance  occurred  in  his 
parish — whether  lack  of  water,  or  overplus  of  rain,  or  any  other  mis- 
chance— but  so  soon  as  he  had  made  three  processions,  on  three  Satur- 
days, God  and  His  mother  sent  them  deliverance.  It  was  then  a  Saturday. 
We  made  the  first  procession  round  the  two  masts  of  the  ship.  I  had 
myself  carried  in  men's  arms,  because  I  was  grievously  sick.  Never  again 
did  we  see  the  mountain;  and  on  the  third  Saturday  we  came  to  Cyprus. 

Here  is  one  of  the  crusaders'  experiences  in  Egypt: 

GREEK   FIRE   HURLED   AGAINST  THE   TOWERS   THAT   GUARDED 
THE   COVERED   WAYS 

One  night  when  we  were  keeping  guard  over  the  towers  that  guarded 
the  covered  ways,  it  happened  that  the  Saracens  brought  an  engine  called 
a  petrary,  which  they  had  not  hitherto  done,  and  put  Greek  fire  into  the 
sling  of  the  engine.  When  my  Lord  Walter  of  Ecurey,  the  good  knight 
who  was  with  me,  saw  it,  he  spoke  thus:  "Lords,  we  are  in  the  greatest 
peril  that  we  have  ever  been  in,  for  if  they  set  fire  to  our  towers  and  we 
remain  here  we  are  but  lost  and  burnt  up;  while  if  we  leave  these  defences 
which  we  have  been  set  to  guard,  we  are  dishonoured.  Wherefore  none 
can  defend  us  in  this  peril  save  God  alone.  So  my  advice  and  counsel 
is,  that  every  time  they  hurl  the  fire  at  us,  we  throw  ourselves  on  our 
elbows  and  knees,  and  pray  to  our  Saviour  to  keep  us  in  this  peril." 

So  soon  as  they  hurled  the  first  cast,  we  threw  ourselves  on  our  elbows 
and  knees  as  he  had  taught  us.  That  first  cast  fell  between  our  two 
towers  guarding  the  covered  ways.  It  fell  on  the  place  in  front  of  us, 
where  the  host  had  been  working  at  the  dam.  Our  firemen  were  ready 
to  put  out  the  fire;  and  because  the  Saracens  could  not  shoot  straight 


THE  GREAT  AWAKENING  6 1 

at  them,  because  of  two  pavilion  wings  that  the  king  had  caused  to  be 
set  up,  they  shot  up  into  the  clouds,  so  that  the  darts  fell  on  the  fire- 
men's heads. 

The  fashion  of  the  Greek  fire  was  such  that  it  came  frontwise  as  large 
as  a  barrel  of  verjuice,  and  the  tail  of  fire  that  issued  from  it  was  as  large 
as  a  large  lance.  The  noise  it  made  in  coming  was  like  heaven's  thunder. 
It  had  the  seeming  of  a  dragon  flying  through  the  air.  It  gave  so  great 
a  light,  because  of  the  great  foison  of  fire  making  the  light,  that  one  saw 
as  clearly  throughout  the  camp  as  if  it  had  been  day.  Three  times  did 
they  hurl  Greek  fire  at  us  that  night  (from  the  petraries),  and  four  times 
with  the  swivel  crossbow. 

Every  time  that  our  saintly  king  heard  them  hurling  the  Greek  fire, 
he  would  raise  himself  in  his  bed,  and  lift  up  his  hands  to  our  Saviour, 
and  say,  weeping:  "Fair  Lord  God,  guard  me  my  people!"  And  verily 
I  believe  that  his  prayers  did  us  good  service  in  our  need.  At  night,  every 
time  the  fire  had  fallen,  he  sent  one  of  his  chamberlains  to  ask  how  we 
fared,  and  whether  the  fire  had  done  us  any  hurt. 

Once  when  they  hurled  it  at  us,  the  fire  fell  near  the  tower  which  the 
people  of  my  Lord  of  Courtenay  were  guarding,  and  struck  the  bank 
of  the  stream.  Then,  look  you,  a  knight,  whose  name  was  1'Aubigoiz, 
came  to  me,  and  said,  "Lord,  if  you  do  not  come  to  our  help  we  shall  all 
be  burned;  for  the  Saracens  have  shot  so  many  of  their  shafts  that  it  is 
as  if  a  great  hedge  were  coming  burning  against  our  tower."  We  sprang 
up,  and  went  thither,  and  found  he  spoke  sooth.  We  put  out  the  fire, 
and  before  we  had  put  it  out,  the  Saracens  had  struck  us  all  with  shafts 
that  they  shot  across  the  stream. 

Marking  the  advent  of  the  new  subjective  spirit  in  life 
and  letters  is  the  composition  of  the  "ROMANCE  OF  THE 
ROSE,"  begun  in  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century  by 
GUILLAUME  DE  LORRIS  and  finished  forty  years  later  by 
JEAN  DE  MEUNG.  The  plot,  as  blocked  out  by  de  Lorris, 
follows  the  idea  of  Ovid's  "Art  of  Love."  It  relates  the 
difficulties  of  the  Lover,  symbolizing  Love,  in  winning  the 
Rose,  symbolizing  Beauty.  Evils — Hypocrisy,  Hatred, 
Jealousy  and  the  like — oppose  the  Lover,  while  working  for 
him  are  Youth  and  Generosity  and  Courtesy  and  their 
friends.  The  course  of  true  love  ran  with  its  usual  roughness, 
and  before  the  lover  could  win  his  bride  the  second  author 
undertook  the  recital  of  his  fortunes  and  introduced  an  en- 
tirely new  tone  to  the  story.  For  several  thousand  lines 
Jean  de  Meung  wrote  on  such  themes  as  were  of  interest  to  a 
scholar  of  his  time.  Philosophical  and  scientific  discussion, 


62  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

and  a  liberality  of  allusions  to  classical  literature  make  it  a 
sort  of  compendium  of  the  learning  of  the  day,  while  its  ele- 
vated moral  and  religious  tone,  its  common  sense,  and  its 
worldly  wisdom  placed  it  among  the  popular  guides  to  living 
for  the  next  three  centuries.  All  France  knew  it  and  quoted 
it  and  even  Chaucer  wrote  a  translation  of  over  seven  thou- 
sand lines.  Following  is  de  Lorris's  description  of 

*  THE  WHEEL  OF  FORTUNE 

In  heart  of  man 

Malice  she  plants,  and  labor,  and  pain; 
One  hour  caresses,  and  smiles,  and  plays; 
Then  as  suddenly  changes  her  face: 
Laughs  one  moment,  the  next  she  mourns; 
Round  and  round  her  wheel  she  turns, 
All  at  her  own  caprice  and  will. 
The  lowest  ascends  and  is  raised  until 
He  who  was  highest  was  low  on  the  ground, 
And  the  wheel  of  fortune  has  quite  turned  round. 

Here  is  Jean  de  Meung's  idea  of  a  gentleman : 

*  Let  him  who  gentleman  would  be, 
From  sloth  and  idleness  keep  free; 
In  arms  and  study  be  employed, 
So  that  not  too  much  trust  be  laid 
In  woman's  faith.    So  may  he  steer 
Of  this  great  danger  wholly  clear. 

Know  all,  that  gentle  blood  may  bring 

No  benefit,  or  any  thing, 

Except  what  each  man's  worth  may  give. 

Know,  also,  none  of  all  that  live 

Can  ask  for  honor,  praise  or  blame, 

By  reason  of  another's  name. 

*  Translated  by  Walter  Bcsant. 


CHAPTER  IV 
WHEN  THE  PRINTING  PRESS   CAME 

THE  thirteenth  century  stands  out  as  the  most  brilliant  in 
France's  mediaeval  history.  It  achieved  that  position 
chiefly  through  the  strength  of  two  forceful  kings,  Philip 
Augustus,  who  ruled  from  1180  to  1223,  and  Louis  IX — 
St.  Louis — whose  reign  lasted  from  1226  to  1270.  Such  long 
periods  of  power  gave  opportunity  for  the  development  of 
any  policy  pushed  perseveringly,  and  both  these  men  worked 
toward  a  definite  end.  Philip's  policy  was  twofold.  First, 
he  wanted  to  enlarge  his  territory,  which  was  then  but  a 
small  part  of  its  present  size — and  in  his  time  Normandy 
was  conquered,  the  crusade  against  the  Albigenses  reduced 
not  only  the  city  of  Albi  but  a  large  part  of  southern  France, 
and  Flanders  fell  to  the  royal  sword.  He  wanted  to  increase 
his  personal  authority — and  he  took  various  measures  to 
check  the  power  of  the  barons  and  the  clergy,  while  at  the 
same  time  encouraging  the  free  towns  with  their  middle  class 
devoted  to  his  interests.  Philip's  methods  were  dictated  by 
a  desire  to  fulfill  the  vision  of  a  united  kingdom  that  no  king 
of  France  had  seen  since  Charlemagne;  St.  Louis,  more 
single-minded  than  his  grandfather,  pursued  similar  methods 
of  concentration  because  it  was  his  sincere  belief  that  the 
welfare  of  his  people  was  bettered  the  more  the  power  was 
centralized  in  the  royal  person. 

Apart  from  the  personalities  of  Philip  and  of  Louis,  the 
century  had  in  itself  certain  qualities  that  make  for  brilliancy. 
It  was  a  time  of  high  thought  and  of  sincere  belief.  Feu- 
dalism and  chivalry  still  meant  loyalty  and  uplift,  and  the  call 

63 


64  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

of  the  crusades  was  a  summons  to  sacrifice  for  righteousness' 
sake.  It  was  an  age  of  ideals  that  fostered  art  in  its  every 
expression. 

The  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century  found  France 
restless  under  the  selfish  misrule  of  a  weak  king  who  was 
seeking  at  every  step  to  thwart  the  barons,  to  wring  money 
from  the  clergy  and  to  use  the  middle  class  as  a  tool  to  aid 
him  now  against  one,  now  against  the  other  of  his  civil  foes. 
Pope  Boniface  entered  into  Philip  The  Fair's  quarrel  with  the 
clergy,  and  by  way  of  strengthening  himself  against  the 
Holy  Father  the  king,  in  1302,  summoned  to  the  Cathedral 
of  Notre  Dame  at  Paris  the  First  National  Assembly.  It  was 
called  the  "States  General,"  because,  for  the  first  time  in  the 
history  of  any  such  body  in  France  it  included  not  only 
representatives  from  the  nobles  and  clergy  but  also  from  the 
Third  Estate,  the  citizens  of  towns  (burghers  or  bourgeois). 
Had  this  establishment  been  allowed  to  develop  like  the 
House  of  Commons  in  England  the  cruel  climax  of  the 
eighteenth  century  might,  perhaps,  have  been  averted,  but 
in  the  space  of  nearly  five  centuries  between  the  founding  of 
the  States  General  and  the  outbreak  of  the  Revolution  the 
Assembly  was  summoned  but  thirteen  times.  Even  when 
it  did  convene  the  system  of  voting  by  classes  allowed  the 
nobles  and  clergy,  who  were  naturally  allied  against  the 
commonalty,  to  outvote  it  in  every  instance. 

Philip's  quarrel  with  the  church  led  to  the  enforced  resi- 
dence of  the  popes  for  seventy  years  at  Avignon  where  they 
could  be  under  the  king's  supervision,  and  to  the  destruction 
of  the  Order  of  the  Knights  Templars,  originally  founded  to 
protect  pilgrims  to  the  Holy  Land  and  now  abundantly  rich 
in  estates  which  the  king  coveted. 

Because  of  their  possessions  in  France  the  English  kings 
had  long  been  vassals  of  the  French  kings,  and  when  Charles 
IV  died,  leaving  no  heir,  his  nephew,  Edward  III  of  England, 


WHEN  THE  PRINTING  PRESS  CAME  65 

claimed  the  throne.  This  demand  was  the  long  awaited 
excuse  for  a  declaration  of  hostilities  and  in  1357  the  Hundred 
Years'  War  began. 

Its  weary  length  was  marked  by  a  few  outstanding  events 
— the  battle  of  Crecy,  where  gunpowder  was  used  for  the 
first  time,  won  by  the  English  over  the  French  mercenary 
troops  imported  from  Italy;  the  siege  of  Calais,  whose  fall 
gave  the  English  an  ever-open  entrance  to  France;  the 
battle  of  Poitiers,  in  which  the  Black  Prince  captured  King 
John  and  sent  him  to  London;  the  battle  of  Agincourt  which 
in  its  after  effects  won  for  Henry  V  a  French  wife  and  for 
their  son  a  French  crown. 

This  coronation  availed  the  English  nothing,  however,  for 
the  real  French  king,  Charles  VII,  aided  by  Jeanne  Dare  of 
Domremy,  defeated  the  English  and  their  allies,  the  Bur- 
gundians,  and  the  victories  so  heartened  the  French  that 
they  swept  their  foes  from  the  country  with  only  Calais  left 
to  show  for  all  their  conquests. 

The  condition  of  any  land  which  is  the  scene  of  war  is 
bound  to  be  one  of  wretchedness,  and  for  five  score  years 
France  knew  a  misery  seemingly  unending.  Her  fields  were 
devastated,  robbers  roamed  unchecked,  the  armies  con- 
sumed the  little  that  was  raised,  and  plague  followed  famine, 
while  uncertainty  as  to  the  movements  of  the  enemy  and 
civil  dissensions  stirred  a  constant  ferment  of  anxiety.  On  the 
peasant,  nicknamed  Jacques  Bonhomme,  fell,  as  always,  the 
greatest  suffering,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  century  he  rose 
against  his  masters  in  an  insurrection — the  Jacquerie — that 
gained  for  him  at  home  nothing  but  greater  suffering,  though 
he  won  the  sympathy  of  his  kind  in  England  where  Wat 
Tyler  headed  an  insurrection  a  few  years  later,  and  in  Ger- 
many where  the  story  of  the  peasant  uprising  betrays  the 
same  condition  of  feudal  cruelty. 

This  was  the  century  that  produced  Chaucer  and  Wycliffe 


66  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

in  England  and  Huss  in  Germany.  France  has  no  such 
names  to  boast.  This  period  followed  the  richest  years  of  the 
middle  ages,  but  its  busy  happenings  left  little  time  for  the 
pursuit  of  anything  but  war  and  necessarily  falls  far  below 
its  predecessor  in  artistic  excellence  as  it  does  in  general 
spirit.  A  certain  youthful  courage  and  brilliancy  evident  in 
the  earlier  feudal  days  grew  depressed  and  bedraggled  as  the 
royal  authority  increased;  the  political  gains  of  the  bourgeois 
were  but  nominal;  the  peasants  were  wretched.  Under  such 
circumstances  there  could  be  no  originality;  the  arts  drooped, 
painting  almost  ceasing  to  exist,  architecture  entering  upon 
the  decadence  of  the  Gothic  which  resulted  in  the  over- 
elaboration  of  the  Flamboyant  style,  and  letters  showing 
hardly  more  than  a  few  serious  writers,  and  a  few  singers  from 
among  those  invincibly  light-hearted  people  who  will  be 
cheerful  no  matter  what  happens. 

The  best  known  literary  name  of  the  fourteenth  century  is 
FROISSART  (1337-1411).  He  was  a  historian  of  the  old 
school,  a  chronicler  pure  and  simple,  who  did  not  search  for 
causes  and  did  not  draw  conclusions,  but  set  down  events  as 
they  happened.  To  such  a  writer  perspective  is  not  necessary. 
He  can  speak  as  well  of  the  war  going  on  around  him  as  of 
peace — better,  perhaps,  for  its  events  are  less  complex.  It 
must  have  seemed  to  Froissart  that  the  world  was  full  of 
fighting,  for  he  was  born  in  the  year  when  war  was  declared 
with  England,  he  never  knew  France  at  peace,  and  he  lived 
long  in  England,  while  Edward  III  was  struggling  with  Scot- 
land. He  tells  it  all  in  simple,  direct  narrative  that  paints 
a  vivid  picture.  Here  is  his  account  of  the  capture  of  the 
French  King  John  at  the  battle  of  Poitiers. 

*  The  English  continued  the  pursuit  of  the  enemy  even  to  the  city  of 
Poitiers,  where  there  was  great  slaughter,  both  of  men  and  horses,  for  the 
inhabitants  had  shut  the  gates,  and  would  suffer  none  to  enter.  The  Lord 

*  Translated  by  Johncs;  adapted  by  Dunster. 


WHEN  THE  PRINTING  PRESS  CAME  67 

of  Pons,  a  powerful  baron  of  Poitou,  was  there  slain.  During  the  whole 
engagement  the  Lord  de  Chargny,  who  was  near  the  king,  and  carried 
the  royal  banner,  fought  most  bravely;  the  English  and  Gascons,  how- 
ever, poured  so  fast  upon  the  king's  division,  that  they  broke  through  the 
ranks  by  force,  and  in  the  confusion  the  Lord  de  Chargny  was  slain,  with 
the  banner  of  France  in  his  hand.  There  was  now  eagerness  manifested  to 
take  the  king;  and  those  who  were  nearest  to  him,  and  knew  him,  cried 
out,  "Surrender  yourself,  surrender  yourself,  or  you  are  a  dead  man."  In 
this  part  of  the  field  was  a  young  knight  from  St.  Omer,  engaged  in  the 
service  of  the  King  of  England,  whose  name  was  Denys  de  Morbeque; 
for  three  years  he  had  attached  himself  to  the  English,  on  account  of 
having  been  banished  from  France  in  his  younger  days  for  a  murder  com- 
mitted during  an  affray  at  St.  Omer.  Now  it  fortunately  happened  for 
this  knight,  that  he  was  at  the  time  near  to  the  King  of  France,  to  whom 
he  said  in  good  French,  "Sire,  sire,  surrender  yourself."  The  king,  who 
found  himself  very  disagreeably  situated,  turning  to  him  asked,  "To 
whom  shall  I  surrender  myself?  Where  is  my  cousin,  the  Prince  of  Wales? 
if  I  could  see  him  I  would  speak  to  him."  "Sire,"  replied  Sir  Denys, 
"he  is  not  here;  but  surrender  yourself  to  me,  and  I  will  lead  you  to  him." 
"Who  are  you?"  said  the  king.  "Sire,  I  am  Denys  de  Morbeque,  a 
knight  from  Artois;  but  I  serve  the  King  of  England  because  I  cannot  be- 
long to  France,  having  forfeited  all  I  possessed  there."  The  king  then 
gave  him  his  right-hand  glove,  and  said,  "I  surrender  myself  to  you." 

The  Prince  of  Wales,  who  was  as  courageous  as  a  lion,  took  great  de- 
light that  day  in  combating  his  enemies.  Sir  John  Chandos,  who  was 
near  his  person,  and  indeed  had  never  quitted  it  during  the  whole  of  the 
engagement,  nor  stopped  to  make  any  prisoners,  said  to  him  towards  the 
end  of  the  battle,  "Sir,  it  will  be  proper  for  you  to  halt  here,  and  plant 
your  banner  on  the  top  of  this  bush,  which  will  serve  to  rally  your  forces, 
as  they  seem  very  much  scattered;  for  I  do  not  see  any  banners  or  pen- 
nons of  the  French,  or  any  considerable  bodies  able  to  rally  against  us, 
and  you  must  refresh  yourself  a  little,  for  I  perceive  you  are  very  much 
heated."  Upon  this  the  banner  of  the  prince  was  placed  on  a  high  bush, 
the  minstrels  began  to  play,  and  the  trumpets  and  clarions  to  do  their 
duty.  The  prince  took  off  his  helmet,  and  the  knights  attendant  on  his 
person  were  soon  ready,  and  pitched  a  small  pavilion  of  crimson  colour, 
which  he  entered.  As  soon  as  the  prince's  marshals  were  come  back, 
he  asked  them  if  they  knew  anything  of  the  King  of  France.  They  re- 
plied, "No,  sir,  nothing  for  a  certainty,  but  we  believe  he  must  be  either 
killed  or  made  prisoner,  since  he  has  never  quitted  his  battalion."  The 
prince,  then  addressing  the  Earl  of  Warwick  and  Lord  Cobham,  said, 


68  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

"I  beg  of  you  to  mount  your  horses  and  ride  over  the  field,  so  that  on 
your  return  you  may  bring  me  some  certain  intelligence  respecting  him." 
The  two  barons  immediately  mounting  their  horses  left  the  prince,  and 
made  for  a  small  hillock  that  they  might  look  about  them;  from  this 
position  they  perceived  a  crowd  of  men-at-arms  on  foot,  advancing  very 
slowly.  The  King  of  France  was  in  the  midst  of  them,  and  in  great  dan- 
ger, for  the  English  and  Gascons  had  taken  him  from  Sir  Denys  de  Mor- 
beque,  and  were  disputing  who  should  have  him;  some  bawling  out,  "It 
is  I  that  have  got  him;"  "No,  no,"  replied  others,  "we  have  him."  The 
king,  to  escape  from  this  perilous  situation,  said,  "Gentlemen,  gentle- 
men, I  pray  you  to  conduct  me  and  my  son,  in  a  courteous  manner,  to 
my  cousin  the  prince,  and  do  not  make  so  great  a  riot  about  my  capture, 
for  I  am  a  great  lord,  and  I  can  make  all  sufficiently  rich."  These  words, 
and  others  which  fell  from  the  king,  appeased  them  a  little;  but  the  dis- 
putes were  always  beginning  again,  and  the  men  did  not  move  a  step 
without  rioting.  When  the  two  barons  saw  this  troop  of  people  they 
descended  from  the  hillock,  and  sticking  spurs  into  their  horses,  made  up 
to  them.  On  their  arrival  they  asked  what  was  the  matter,  and  were 
informed  that  the  King  of  France  had  been  made  prisoner,  and  that  up- 
wards of  ten  knjghts  and  squires  challenged  him  at  the  same  time  as  be- 
longing to  each  of  them.  The  two  barons  then  pushed  through  the  crowd 
by  main  force,  and  ordered  all  to  draw  aside.  They  commanded  in  the 
name  of  the  prince,  and  under  pain  of  instant  death,  that  every  one  should 
keep  his  distance,  and  none  approach  unless  ordered  so  to  do.  All  then 
retreated  behind  the  king,  and  the  two  barons,  dismounting,  advanced 
to  the  royal  prisoner  with  profound  reverence,  and  conducted  him  in  a 
peaceable  manner  to  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

Lord  James  Audley  had  not  long  left  the  prince's  presence,  when  the 
Earl  of  Warwick  and  Lord  Reginald  Cobham  entered  the  pavilion  and 
presented  the  King  of  France  to  him.  The  prince  made  a  very  low  obei- 
sance to  the  king,  and  gave  him  all  the  comfort  as  he  was  able.  He 
ordered  wine  and  spices  to  be  brought,  which,  as  a  mark  of  his  great 
affection,  he  presented  to  the  king  himself. 

Thus  was  this  battle  won,  as  you  have  heard  related,  on  the  plains  of 
Maupertuis,  two  leagues  from  the  city  of  Poitiers,  on  the  igth  day  of 
September,  1356.  The  victory  brought  much  wealth  to  the  English, 
for  there  were  large  quantities  of  gold  and  silver  plate,  and  rich  jewels 
in  the  French  camp.  Indeed,  the  loss  on  the  part  of  the  French  was  very 
great;  besides  the  king,  his  son  Lord  Philip,  seventeen  earls,  and  others 
who  were  taken  prisoners,  it  is  reported  that  five  or  six  thousand  were 
left  dead  on  the  field.  When  evening  came  the  Prince  of  Wales  enter- 


WHEN  THE  PRINTING  PRESS  CAME  69 

tained  his  royal  prisoner  at  supper  with  marked  attention.  The  next 
day  the  English  left  Poitiers  and  advanced  to  Bordeaux,  where  they 
passed  the  winter  in  feasting  and  merriment.  In  England,  when  the 
news  arrived  of  the  battle  of  Poitiers,  and  of  the  defeat  of  the  French, 
there  were  great  rejoicings,  solemn  thanksgivings  were  offered  up  in  all 
the  churches,  and  bonfires  made  in  every  town  and  village. 

If,  however,  the  kingdom  of  England  and  its  allies  were  much  delighted 
at  the  success  of  their  armies,  and  the  capture  of  the  King  of  France, 
that  realm  was  sorely  troubled  and  vexed,  and,  indeed,  it  had  good  cause 
to  be  so;  all  the  flower  of  its  chivalry  was  gone,  and  the  three  sons  of  the 
king  who  escaped  the  battle  were  so  young  and  inexperienced  that  they 
were  quite  unfit  to  govern.  Many  conferences  were  held  respecting  the 
state  of  public  affairs,  and  much  distress  and  discontent  were  manifested. 
At  length  the  three  estates  resolved  to  choose  each  twelve  counsellors, 
who  should  confer  together  for  the  better  government  of  the  kingdom, 
and  send  out  men-at-arms,  to  stop,  if  possible,  the  ravages  of  the  English. 
In  an  encounter  with  these  troops  the  brave  Sir  Godfrey  de  Harcourt 
met  his  death.  When  winter  was  over  and  the  season  was  sufficiently 
advanced  for  travelling,  the  prince  made  preparations  for  quitting 
Bordeaux,  and  for  conducting  the  French  king  and  his  principal  prison- 
ers to  England,  leaving  behind  him  several  of  his  own  knights  to  guard 
the  cities  and  towns  which  he  had  taken.  After  a  long  and  tedious 
voyage  he  and  his  retinue,  together  with  the  captured  monarch,  arrived 
at  Sandwich,  disembarked,  and  proceeded  to  Canterbury.  \Vhen  the 
King  of  England  was  informed  of  this,  he  gave  orders  to  the  citizens 
of  London  to  make  such  preparations  as  were  suitable  for  the  reception 
of  so  mighty  a  person  as  the  King  of  France. 

The  prince  and  his  royal  charge  remained  one  day  at  Canterbury, 
where  they  made  their  offerings  to  the  shrine  of  St.  Thomas,  and  the 
next  morning  proceeded  to  Rochester,  the  third  day  to  Dartford,  and 
the  fourth  to  London,  where  they  were  received  with  much  honour  and 
distinction.  The  King  of  France,  as  he  rode  through  London,  was 
mounted  on  a  white  steed,  with  very  rich  furniture,  and  the  Prince  of 
Wales  on  a  little  black  hackney  by  his  side.  The  palace  of  the  Savoy 
was  first  appropriated  to  the  French  king's  use;  but  soon  after  his  ar- 
rival he  was  removed  to  Windsor  Castle,  where  he  was  treated  with  the 
greatest  possible  attention,  and  hunting,  hawking,  and  other  amuse- 
ments were  provided  for  him. 

Froissart's  gift  for  verse-making  has  been  mentioned  be- 
fore. Here  is  a  triolet  of  his  composition. 


70  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

*  Take  time  while  yet  it  is  in  view, 

For  fortune  is  a  fickle  fair, 
Days  fade  and  others  spring  anew; 
Then  take  the  moment  still  in  view 
What  boots  to  toil  and  cares  pursue? 

Each  month  a  new  moon  hangs  in  air: 
Take  then,  the  moment  still  in  view 

For  fortune  is  a  fickle  fair. 

Like  Froissart  in  the  variety  of  her  talents  is  CHRISTINE  DE 
PISAN.  She,  too,  was  a  historian,  she  wrote  verse,  she  took 
Jean  de  Meung  to  task  for  his  aspersions  upon  the  character 
of  women  in  the  "Romance  of  the  Rose,"  she  wrote  essays 
of  a  didactic  tone.  Born  in  Venice  in  1363  she  spent  her  life 
at  the  court  of  France  after  she  was  five  years  old.  She  wras 
widowed  at  twenty-five  and  thereafter  supported  herself  by 
her  pen.  A  quaint  old  print  shows  her  inspired  in  her  writing 
by  the  virtues  of  Reason,  Honesty,  and  Justice,  and  another 
portrays  her  in  the  act  of  presenting  one  of  her  books  to 
King  Charles  VI.  Here  is  an  example  of  her  verse. 

RONDEL 

(From  Longfellow's  "Poetry  of  Europe") 

I  live  in  hopes  of  better  days, 

And  leave  the  present  hour  to  chance, 
Although  so  long  my  wish  delays, 

And  still  recedes  as  I  advance; 
Although  hard  fortune,  too  severe, 

My  life  in  mourning  weeds  arrays, 
Nor  in  gay  haunts  may  I  appear, 

I  live  in  hopes  of  better  days. 

Though  constant  care  my  fortune  prove, 

By  long  endurance  patient  grown, 
Still  with  the  time  my  wishes  move, 

Within  my  breast  no  murmur  known: 
Whate'er  my  adverse  lot  displays, 

I  live  in  hopes  of  better  days. 

•  From  Longfellow's  "Poetry  of  Europe." 


WHEN  THE  PRINTING  PRESS  CAME  71 

A  manuscript  letter  addressed  to  Queen  Isabel  of  Bavaria 
is  preserved  in  the  National  Library  at  Paris,  and  gives  an 
instance  of  Christine  de  Pisan's  didactic  expression. 

Again  I  tell  you  that  just  as  the  queen  of  heaven,  mother  of  God,  is 
called  mother  of  all  chastity,  so  ought  every  wise  and  good  queen  to  be 
called  mother  and  comforter,  and  advocate  of  her  subjects  and  her  people. 
Alas!  who  would  be  so  hard  a  mother  as  to  endure,  unless  she  had  a  heart 
of  stone,  seeing  her  children  half-killed  and  shedding  each  other's  blood 
and  maiming  and  tearing  their  poor  members,  and  then  seeing  strange 
enemies  fall  upon  them  unawares  to  persecute  them  mightily  and  seize 
their  heritages.  For  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  enemies  of  the  kingdom, 
delighted  at  this  adventure,  would  come  from  abroad  with  a  large  army 
to  annihilate  them.  Ah,  God,  what  a  distress  that  so  noble  a  kingdom 
should  be  destroyed  and  that  such  chivalry  should  perish!  And,  alas, 
how  true  it  is  that  the  poor  must  pay  for  sins  of  which  they  are  innocent, 
and  that  the  poor  little  sucklings  and  small  children  should  cry  after 
their  weary  mothers,  widowed  and  griefstricken,  dying  of  hunger;  and 
that  they,  deprived  of  their  property,  should  have  nothing  wherewith 
to  appease  them;  whose  voices  as  the  Scriptures  relate  in  several  places, 
through  very  pity  pierce  the  heavens  before  just  God  and  bring  down 
vengeance  upon  those  who  are  the  cause  of  it. 

Contemporary  with  Froissart  and  Chaucer  was  EUSTACHE 
DESCHAMPS  (1340-1410),  a  man  of  obscure  birth,  but  well 
educated,  who  became  attached  to  the  person  of  Charles  V. 
His  poetry,  written  in  all  the  much-loved  lyric  forms,  gives 
an  admirable  picture  of  the  daily  living  of  the  time,  deploring 
the  laziness  of  young  men,  the  frivolity  of  women,  and  the 
intrusive  characteristics  of  mothers-in-law.  In  the  king  he 
saw  every  virtue.  That  he  could  be  both  graceful  and  didactic 
the  poems  below  testify. 

ASCENSION  DAY 

(Translated  by  Walter  Besant) 

When  shall  the  day  be,  of  all  the  year, 
The  day  that  the  maidens  may  call  their  own, 

When  everyone  in  her  newest  gear, 
The  gayest  ribbons,  the  richest  gown, 
Laughter  and  joy  shall  give  to  the  town? 


72  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Tis  in  the  spring,  so  bright  and  gay, 
In  the  pleasantest  month,  the  Month  of  May, 
And  the  maidens'  day  is  Ascension  Day. 

On  this  day  of  the  joyous  Spring, 

Should  every  maiden  be  dressed  in  green, 
When  at  break  of  day  the  Church  bells  ring; 

Spread  out  the  feast  with  napkins  clean; 

Let  all  the  Spring's  best  gifts  be  seen; 
Spread  out  the  feast  with  flowers  gay; 
'Tis  the  pleasantest  month,  the  month  of  May, 

And  this  is  Ascension,  the  maidens'  day. 

Beauty  the  maidens  typify; 

Spring's  simple  food,  our  hearts'  content; 
The  napkins  white,  our  purity; 

The  green  grass,  friendship's  firmament; 

The  flowers  their  joyousness  have  lent. 
All  perfect  joy  doth  come  with  May; 
Blithely  sing  and  dance  so  gay, 

For  this  is  Ascension,  the  maidens'  day. 

DUTY  OF  WORK 

(Translated  by  Walter  Besant) 

In  lover  or  in  Knighthood;  in  fray  or  in  hall; 

In  labor  afield  at  the  plough  or  the  tree; 
In  robe  of  the  judge,  or  as  king  over  all, 

In  coarse  dress  of  toil  on  the  shore  or  the  sea; 
Be  it  far — be  it  near — the  conclusion  of  toil, 

Let  each  bear  his  burden  the  length  of  his  day, 
Nor  for  weariness'  sake  let  his  handiwork  spoil; 

Do  all  that  thou  hast  to  do,  happen  what  may. 

Deschamps  is  also  the  author  of  the  famous  fable  of  the 
mice  who  want  to  bell  the  cat. 

Out  of  the  misery  and  the  horror  of  the  fourteenth  century 
and  the  first  part  of  the  fifteenth,  the  latter  half  of  the  fif- 
teenth century  emerged  with  happier  prospects  for  growth 
than  might  have  been  expected.  The  triumphant  ending  of 
the  Hundred  Years'  War  (1453)  renewed  the  courage  and 


WHEN  THE  PRINTING  PRESS  CAME  73 

hope  of  the  people,  and  in  the  blessed  calm  of  peace  they  did 
not  see  the  increase  of  power  which  had  come  to  the  king 
through  several  channels.  Feudal  custom  had  made  the 
sovereign  dependent  upon  his  barons  for  the  furnishing  of 
soldiers  for  the  army,  but  towards  the  end  of  the  long  war 
Charles  VII  did  what  Diaz  did  in  Mexico  when  he  established 
the  Rural  Police — he  converted  into  a  standing  army  the 
robbers  and  adventurers  who  were  preying  upon  the  country, 
thus  giving  them  a  legitimate  outlet  for  their  energy  and 
providing  himself  with  a  force  which  made  him  independent 
of  the  lords.  Further,  the  ranks  of  the  nobility  had  been 
greatly  depleted  during  the  war,  and  many  estates  had  fallen 
into  the  crown,  while  the  king  was  also  made  the  guardian  of 
many  minors  whose  fathers  had  fallen  on  the  field,  and  he 
thus  gained  control  of  their  persons  and  their  property.  The 
three  classes  of  people,  nobles,  clergy,  and  bourgeois,  were 
politically  distinct,  but  the  feeling  of  unity  which  began  when 
the  crusades  brought  the  pilgrims  in  contact  with  other  na- 
tions grew  into  a  national  sentiment  when  many  of  the  dis- 
tricts of  France  were  fighting  together  against  a  common  foe. 
With  Louis  XI,  whose  reign  of  twenty-two  years  followed 
soon  after  the  declaration  of  peace,  the  modern  history  of 
France  really  begins  because  his  methods  were  modern.  He 
was  beset  on  all  sides  by  foreign  enemies  and  by  rebellious 
nobles,  and  to  the  crude  and  open  methods  that  were  a  relic 
of  feudalism  he  opposed  the  less  obvious,  the  more  subtle 
methods  of  a  mind  fertile  in  schemes,  farseeing  and  none  too 
honest.  After  a  long  struggle  he  practically  consolidated 
France,  standing  triumphantly  upon  the  ruins  of  famous 
houses  which  he  had  destroyed.  The  lower  classes  trusted 
him,  for  he  made  good  roads  and  protected  them  so  that 
travel  was  safe  and  trade  encouraged.  To  him  must  be  given 
the  credit  of  establishing  a  postoffice  of  a  restricted  sort,  and 
of  trying  to  have  uniform  weights  and  measures.  Mentally 


74  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

alert  himself  he  encouraged  like  ability  in  others  and  was 
democratic  in  his  bestowal  of  favors  upon  worth  rather  than 
position.  He  established  universities,  he  encouraged  the  art 
of  engraving,  which  had  been  discovered  in  1423;  he  per- 
mitted three  Germans  who  had  learned  how  to  print  from 
Gutenberg  himself  to  establish  their  presses  at  the  Sorbonne 
in  1469,  five  years  before  Caxton  printed  the  first  book  in 
England.  When  the  capture  of  Constantinople  by  the  Turks 
dispersed  the  students  of  the  East  he  welcomed  into  the 
University  the  learned  men  who  came  to  Paris,  and  encour- 
aged the  "new  learning"  which  was  rather  the  "novel" 
learning  since  it  was  but  the  classics  whose  introduction  to 
the  West  was  a  novelty. 

Under  Louis's  successor,  Charles  VIII,  the  peasantry 
gained  representation  in  the  States  General,  so  that  after 
1484  the  Third  Estate  means  bourgeois  and  peasant  com- 
bined. This  same  king  began  the  expeditions  into  Italy 
which  were  of  little  political  importance,  but  which  brought 
to  France  that  knowledge  of  Italian  art  and  letters  which 
later  changed  her  whole  artistic  expression. 

At  the  end  of  the  century  came  the  discovery  of  the  New 
World,  touching  every  imagination  to  dreams  of  mysterious 
lands  and  gallant  adventures. 

It  is  natural  that  the  literary  output  of  this  troubled  time 
should  not  be  great — should  be  less,  if  anything,  than  that  of 
the  first  part  of  the  struggle  with  England  because  the  coun- 
try was  exhausted  mentally  as  well  as  physically  by  war  and 
civil  dissension.  There  were  long  chronicles,  interesting  to 
the  student  of  history;  there  were  some  moral  reflections  for 
which  the  circumstances  of  the  day  gave  ample  excuse;  there 
was  oratory,  both  clerical  and  lay,  provoked  by  these  same 
circumstances;  there  was  a  new  stage  of  the  romance,  more 
suggestive  of  the  modern  novel,  though  without  any  psycho- 
logical element  as  yet;  and  there  were  the  lyric  poets  who 


WHEN  THE  PRINTING  PRESS  CAME  75 

sang  through  thick  and  thin  and  whose  reward  came  in  the 
fame  that  has  kept  their  names  alive  for  five  centuries. 

Among  these  poets  ALAIN  CHARTIER  (1390-1457)  holds 
an  honored  place,  more  for  the  elevation  of  his  sentiments 
and  the  loftiness  of  his  expression  than  for  his  workmanship. 
He  wrote  on  love,  on  patriotism,  and  on  moral  themes,  and 
he  achieved  an  enormous  popularity.  Tradition  has  it  that 
Margaret  of  Scotland,  married  to  the  dauphin,  afterwards 
Louis  XI,  once  kissed  him  as  he  slept,  explaining  to  her 
attendants  that  she  was  not  drawn  by  his  external  attractions 
— he  was  called  the  ugliest  man  in  France — but  that  she 
wished  to  salute  the  mouth  "whence  had  issued  such  golden 
words." 

Chaucer  is  believed  to  have  made  this  translation  of 
Chartier's 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCY 

The  hordes  were  spread  in  right  little  space, 

The  ladies  sat  each  as  hem  seemed  best, 
There  were  no  deadly  seruants  in  the  place, 

But  chosen  men,  right  of  the  goodliest: 
And  some  there  were,  perauenture  most  freshest, 

That  saw  their  judges  full  demure, 
Without  semblaunt,  either  to  most  or  lest, 

Notwithstanding  they  had  hem  vnder  cure. 

Emong  all  other,  one  I  gan  espy, 

Which  in  great  thoughtful  often  came  and  went, 
As  one  that  had  been  rauished  vtterly: 

In  his  language  not  greatly  diligent, 
His  countenance  he  kept  with  great  turment, 

But  his  desire  farre  passed  his  reason, 
For  euer  his  eye  went  after  his  entent, 

Full  many  a  time,  whan  it  was  no  season. 

To  make  chere  sore  himsclfe  he  pained, 

And  outwardly  he  fained  great  gladnesse, 
To  sing  also  by  force  he  was  constrained, 

For  no  pleasaunce,  but  very  shamefastnesse: 


76  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

For  the  complaint  of  his  most  heauinesse 
Came  to  his  voice,  alway  without  request, 

Like  as  the  soune  of  birdes  doth  expresse, 
Whan  they  sing  loud  in  frith  or  in  forrest. 

Other  there  were  that  serued  in  the  hall, 

But  none  like  him,  as  after  mine  aduise, 
For  he  was  pale,  and  somewhat  lean  withall, 

His  speech  also  trembled  in  fearfull  wise, 
And  auer  alone,  but  whan  he  did  seruise, 

All  blacke  he  ware,  and  no  deuise  but  plain: 
Me  thought  by  him,  as  my  wit  could  suffise, 

His  herte  was  nothing  in  his  own  demain. 

To  feast  hem  all  he  did  his  dilligence, 

And  well  he  coud,  right  as  it  seemed  me, 
But  euermore,  whan  he  was  in  presence, 

His  chere  was  done,  it  nolde  none  other  be: 
His  schoolemaister  had  such  auchthorite, 

That,  all  the  while  he  bode  still  in  the  place, 
Speake  could  he  not,  but  upon  her  beautie 

He  looked  still  with  a  right  pitous  face. 


To  this  lady  he  came  full  courtisly, 

Whan  he  thought  time  to  dance  with  her  a  trace, 
Set  in  an  herber,  made  full  pleasantly, 

They  rested  hem  fro  theno  but  a  little  space: 
Night  hem  were  none  of  a  certain  compace, 

But  onely  they,  so  farre  as  I  coud  see: 
Saue  the  traile,  there  I  had  chose  my  place, 

There  was  no  more  between  hem  two  and  me. 


Full  oftentimes  to  speak  himself  he  pained, 

But  shamefastnesse  and  clrede  said  euer  nay, 
Yet  at  the  last,  so  sore  he  was  constrained 

Whan  he  full  long  had  put  it  in  delay, 
To  his  lady  right  thus  than  gan  he  say, 

With  dredeful  voice,  weeping,  half  in  a  rage: 
"  For  me  was  purueyed  an  unhappy  day, 

Whan  I  first  had  a  sight  of  your  visage!" 


WHEN  THE  PRINTING  PRESS  CAME  77 

Chartier's  prose  style  was  better  than  his  verse  and  won 
him  the  nickname  of  the  "Father  of  Eloquence."  He  allows 
himself  a  wide  range  in  prose,  from  an  allegory  wherein  the 
Nobility,  the  Clergy,  the  Commonalty  and  the  Peasantry 
discuss  the  Hundred  Years'  War  to  a  "Book  of  Four  Ladies" 
who  have  lost  their  lovers  in  different  ways  at  the  battle  of 
Agincourt  and  who  confer  as  to  which  is,  in  consequence,  the 
most  miserable. 

Owing  to  this  same  battle  France  lost  to  England  for  thirty 
years  a  most  graceful  poet  in  CHARLES,  DUKE  OF  ORLEANS 
(1391-1465),  father  of  Louis  XII.  Charles  diverted  the 
years  of  his  captivity  by  writing  verse  of  the  lighter  lyric 
forms,  and  after  his  return  to  France  he  gathered  about  him 
in  Blois  a  group  of  writers  of  congenial  tastes.  Here  is  a 

SONG 

(From  Longfellow's  "Poetry  of  Europe") 

Wilt  thou  be  mine?  dear  love,  reply, — 
Sweetly  consent,  or  else  deny; 
Whisper  softly,  none  shall  know, — 
Wilt  thou  be  mine,  love?  ay  or  no? 

Spite  of  fortune  we  may  be 
Happy  by  one  word  from  thee: 
Life  flies  swiftly;  ere  it  go, 
Wilt  thou  be  mine,  love? — ay  or  no? 

*THE  FAIREST  THING  IN  MORTAL  EYES 
(Addressed  to  his  deceased  wife,  who  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-two) 

To  make  my  lady's  obsequies 

My  love  a  minster  wrought, 
And,  in  the  chantry,  service  there 

Was  sung  by  doleful  thought; 
The  tapers  were  of  burning  sighs, 

That  light  and  odor  gave: 

•  Translated  by  Henry  Francis  Gary. 


78  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

And  sorrows,  painted  o'er  with  tears, 

Eulumined  her  grave; 
And  round  about,  in  quaintest  guise, 
Was  carved:  "Within  this  tomb  there  lies 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes." 

Above  her  lieth  spread  a  tomb 

Of  gold  and  sapphires  blue: 
The  gold  doth  show  her  blessedness, 

The  sapphires  mark  her  true; 
For  blessedness  and  truth  in  her 

Were  livelily  portrayed, 
When  gracious  God  with  both  his  hands 

Her  goodly  substance  made 
He  framed  her  in  such  wondrous  wise, 
She  was,  to  speak  without  disguise, 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes. 

No  more,  no  more!  my  heart  doth  faint 
When  I  the  life  recall 

Of  her  who  lived  so  free  from  taint, 
So  virtuous  deemed  by  all, — 
That  in  herself  was  so  complete 
I  think  that  she  was  ta'en 

By  God  to  deck  his  paradise, 
And  with  his  saints  to  reign; 

Whom  while  on  earth  each  one  did  prize 

The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes. 

But  naught  our  tears  avail,  or  cries; 

All  soon  or  late  in  death  shall  sleep; 

Nor  living  wight  long  time  may  keep 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes. 

Andrew  Lang  offers  this  translation  of  a 

SPRING  SONG 

The  year  has  changed  his  mantle  cold 
Of  wind,  of  rain,  of  bitter  air; 

And  he  goes  clad  in  cloth  of  gold, 
Of  laughing  suns  and  season  fair; 


WHEN  THE  PRINTING  PRESS  CAME  79 

No  bird  or  beast  of  wood  or  wold 
But  doth  with  cry  or  song  declare 

The  year  lays  down  his  mantle  cold. 

All  founts,  all  rivers,  seaward  rolled, 

The  pleasant  summer  livery  wear, 

With  silver  studs  on  broidered  vair; 
The  world  puts  off  its  raiment  old, 
The  year  lays  down  his  mantle  cold. 

Of  a  Norman  poet  entirely  different  in  tone  from  the  serious 
Chartier  or  the  chivalrous  Charles  of  Orleans  our  own  Long- 
fellow sang 

In  the  Valley  of  the  Vire 

Still  is  seen  an  ancient  mill 
With  its  gables  quaint  and  queer, 
And  beneath  the  window-sill 
On  the  stone 
These  words  alone: 
"OLIVER  BASSELIN  lived  here." 

Basselin  (who  died  in  1419)  was  the  author  of  drinking 
songs  called  Vaux  de  Vire  from  which  comes  the  word  vaude- 
ville, of  quite  different  modern  meaning. 

Longfellow's  comment  seems  to  be  the  common  opinion  of 
this  rude,  jovial  singer  of  the  coarse  joys  of  the  people,  who, 
nevertheless,  had  a  human  tenderness  that  made  him  be- 
loved. 

True,  his  songs  were  not  divine; 
Were  not  songs 

Were  not  songs  of  that  high  art 
Which,  as  winds  do  in  the  pine 
Find  an  answer  in  each  heart; 
But  the  mirth 
Of  this  green  earth 
Laughed  and  revelled  in  his  line. 

If  Basselin 's  verses  tell  the  truth  he  had  a  phenomenal 


So  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

capacity,  and  if  one  may  draw  a  conclusion  from  the  subjects 
of  his  poems,  he  had  but  one  idea  in  his  head. 

*VAU  DE  VIRE 

Adam  (notorious  this,  I  think) 

Had  not  been  in  such  sorry  state 

When  so  fatally  he  ate, 
He  rather  taken  had  to  drink 

Which  is  the  cause  why  I  avoid 

To  be  a  gourmand  in  my  food; 
'Tis  true  that  I  know  what  is  good 
In  wine,  when  wine  is  unalloyed. 

So  that  whenever  I  may  sit 

In  some  repast — expecting  work, 

I  far  more  curiously  look 
At  the  buffet  than  at  the  spit. 

The  eye  marks  what  the  heart  holds  dear; 

Too  much  I  may  have  looked  upon 

A  full  glass:  if  not  emptied  soon 
It  will  not  be  a  glass  of  Vire. 

Incomparable  as  a  ballad  writer,  and  sharing  with  Charles 
of  Orleans  the  title  of  "first  of  the  moderns"  is  VILLON 
(1431-1480),  the  "sad,  bad,  glad,  mad  brother"  of  Swin- 
burne's poem.  Of  a  temperament  that  lent  itself  to  every 
excess  and  that  led  him,  if  not  to  the  actual  commission  of 
crime,  at  any  rate  to  be  laid  under  such  strong  suspicion  that 
he  was  at  one  time  sentenced  to  be  hanged,  he  had  also  the 
creative  side  of  such  emotional  impulsiveness.  His  verses 
are  rhythmic,  musical,  and  accurate,  his  confessions  are 
touching,  his  simplicity  winning,  and  his  humor  truly  mirth- 
ful. A  strain  of  sadness  betrays  his  consciousness  of  weak- 
ness, yet  its  presence  does  not  mar  the  spontaneity  that 
marks  alike  the  grisly  "Ballade  of  the  Hanged,"  the  "Ballade 

•Translated  by  Klizabeth  Lee  in  "The  Humour  of  France."  Courtesy  of  Chas. 
Scribner's  Sons,  American  publishers. 


WHEN  THE  PRINTING  PRESS  CAME  81 

of  Old  Time  Ladies,"  quoted  in  another  chapter,  or  the 
touching 

BALLADE   THAT   VILLON   MADE   AT  THE   REQUEST   OF 
HIS  MOTHER  AS  A  PRAYER  TO  OUR  LADY 

(Translated  by  Walter  Besant) 

Queen  of  the  skies,  and  regent  of  the  earth; 

Empress  of  all  that  dwells  beneath; 
Receive  me,  poor  and  low,  of  little  worth, 

Among  thy  chosen  after  death. 
Nothing  I  bring  with  me;  nothing  I  have: 
But  yet  thy  mercy,  Lady,  is  as  great 
As  all  my  sum  of  sins:  beyond  the  grave, 
Without  thy  mercy,  none  can  ask  of  fate 
To  enter  heaven;  and  without  guile  or  lie 
I  in  thy  faith  will  faithful  live  and  die. 

Only  a  woman,  humble,  poor,  and  old; 

Letters  I  read  not;  nothing  know; 
But  see  in  church  with  painted  flames  of  gold 

That  Hell  where  all  the  wicked  go: 
And,  joyous  with  glad  harps,  God's  Paradise. 
One  fills  my  heart  with  fear;  one  with  delight 
For  sinners  all  may  turn  repentant  eyes 
To  thee,  O  Lady,  merciful  and  bright, 
With  faith  down-laden — without  guile  or  lie 
I  in  thy  faith  will  faithful  live  and  die. 

Though  born  a  quarter  of  a  century  after  the  Hundred 
Years'  War  had  ended,  PIERRE  GRINGORE  or  Gringoire 
(1475-1545)  evidently  saw  enough  of  war's  ill  effects  still 
remaining  about  him  to  make  him  an  ardent  apostle  of  peace. 
He  wrote  vehemently  on  all  subjects  moral  and  didactic  and 
so  searchingly  and  so  acutely  that  he  has  been  called  the 
Voltaire  of  his  day — but  on  no  subject  is  he  more  ardent  or 
more  wise  than  in  his  discussion  of  "Peace  and  War."  The 
end  of  this  really  uplifting  poem,  unusual  indeed  in  that  pug- 
nacious period,  serves  also  as  his  signature. 


82  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

*  G  lory  to  Jesus  all  mankind  should  give. 
R  emember  well  His  noble  deeds  and  high; 
I  nto  this  world  He  entered,  here  to  live 
N  ot  struggling  as  men  do.    He  did  decry 
G  reat  war,  and  wrought  for  man's  release. 
O  noble  Duke  and  Prince  of  all  Lorraine, 
R  eigning  in  peace,  seeing  in  war  a  stain, 
E  steemed  is  he  who  keeps  his  land  in  peace. 

More  important  in  his  day  than  any  of  the  other  men  of 
letters  in  this  century  was  PHILIPPE  DE  COMMYNES  (1445- 
1509),  a  seigneur  of  Flemish  birth,  who  was  first  attached 
to  the  Burgundian  court  and  then  went  over  to  Louis  XI. 
Under  Louis's  son,  Charles  VIII,  he  felt  the  pain  of  royal 
fickleness  for  he  was  imprisoned  for  eight  months  in  a  cage. 
After  this  incident  he  was  returned  to  favor,  however,  and 
was  devoted  to  the  king's  service. 

In  his  public  life  Commynes  was  a  diplomat.  His  private 
work  was  the  writing  of  such  history  as  France  had  not  known 
before — history  that  examined  causes,  that  sought  out 
meanings,  that  made  explanations.  With  him  history  had  a 
philosophy  and  a  psychology  and  it  wore  a  profoundly  moral 
aspect.  Comparison  of  this  brief  quotation  below  with  Ville- 
hardouin  or  De  Joinville  or  Froissart  will  showr  that  the  writing 
of  history  in  France  took  on  a  new  aspect  with  the  advent  of 
Philippe  de  Commynes. 

THE  LIMITS  OF  A  PRINCE'S  POWER 

Is  there  a  king  or  lord  on  earth  who  has  the  power,  outside  his  own 
domain,  to  lay  a  penny's  tax  upon  his  subjects,  without  granting  some 
concession  and  gaining  the  consent  of  those  who  must  pay  it,  except  he 
do  so  by  tyranny  or  violence?  It  might  be  urged  that  there  are  times 
when  he  should  not  wait  for  the  assembly  because  it  would  delay  matters 
too  long.  There  is  no  need  of  haste,  in  beginning  or  carrying  on  war  and 
there  is  enough  time  for  that:  and  I  tell  you  that  kings  and  princes  are 
all  the  stronger  when  they  undertake  it  with  the  consent  of  their  subjects, 
•  Translated  by  J.  Raveccl  Smith. 


WHEN  THE  PRINTING  PRESS  CAME  83 

and  they  are  more  feared  by  their  enemies.  And  when  it  comes  to  de- 
fending themselves  and  a  cloud  rises  in  the  distance,  especially  from  a 
foreign  country,  good  subjects  should  not  begrudge  or  refuse  anything, 
and  no  emergency  should  be  so  sudden  that  it  would  not  be  possible  to 
summon  some  supporters.  I  know  well  that  it  costs  money  to  defend 
frontiers  and  to  guard  the  country  round  about  out  of  wartime,  to  pre- 
vent surprise,  but  the  whole  thing  must  be  done  in  moderation,  and  the 
good  sense  of  a  wise  prince  guides  him  in  all  such  matters;  for  if  he  is 
good  he  knows  God  and  what  the  world  demands,  and  what  he  must  do  and 
what  he  may  leave  undone. 


84 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 


GROWTH  OF  FRANCE 
From  the  Close  of  the  xoth  to  the  Close  of  the  isth  Century 

The  shaded  portion  shows  the  part  of  France  directly  ruled  by  Hugh  Capet.     The 
dates  mark  the  time  when  the  provinces  or  dukedoms  became  possessions  of  the  crown. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH 

NEVER  in  the  history  of  the  world  have  people  encountered 
so  much  that  was  new  and  surprising  to  spur  the  imagination 
as  did  the  folk  of  western  Europe  in  the  sixteenth  century. 
We  who  have  lived  in  the  nineteenth  century  are  accustomed 
to  think,  and  with  truth,  that  we  have  seen  marvels  in  the 
epoch-making  developments  of  machinery  and  in  the  man- 
ifold applications  of  steam  and  of  electricity;  but  the  fields 
which  they  have  opened  are  insignificant  when  compared  to 
those  whose  wonders  were  revealed  by  the  invention  of  print- 
ing, and  the  discoveries  of  the  monotonous  poles  are  unstimu- 
lating  beside  the  discovery  of  the  New  World,  whose  varied 
wealth  had  existed  before  that  time  only  in  mythological 
speculation. 

The  influx  of  knowledge  and  of  letters  and  of  scholarly  men 
that  had  been  moving  from  the  East  to  the  West  ever  since 
the  days  of  the  first  crusade  had  swollen  tremendously  with 
the  downfall  of  Constantinople,  and  the  sixteenth  century 
found  the  schools  and  universities  of  the  West  alive  with 
teachers  and  speakers  who  brought  with  them  a  store  of 
classical  learning,  some  of  which  the  West  had  forgotten  but 
most  of  which  it  never  had  known. 

Beside  the  classical  richness  and  buoyancy  of  spirit  the 
brutality  and  the  meagerness  of  the  social  life  and  the  ascet- 
icism of  the  church  life  of  the  Middle  Ages  seemed  bare  and 
unlovely.  Instant  response  was  made  to  this  new  mental 
appeal.  Art  no  longer  took  its  subjects  from  tales  of  the 
sufferings  which  had  won  canonization  for  physically  ugly 

85 


86  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

martyrs,  but  painted  the  ripe  loveliness  of  worldly  beings 
enjoying  themselves  in  truly  pagan  abandon.  Architecture 
renewed  the  classic  outlines  and  redeemed  the  over-elaborate 
decoration  of  the  flamboyant  style  by  a  return  to  the  simple 
and  dignified  directness  of  the  forms  of  early  Greece  and 
Rome.  Disputants  ceased  arguing  over  the  number  of  angels 
who  could  dance  upon  the  point  of  a  needle,  chroniclers  found 
fruitful  models  in  the  historians  of  ancient  days,  translators 
reaped  an  ample  harvest  from  the  new-found  manuscripts  of 
drama  and  romance,  and  satirists  were  led  to  a  keener  ob- 
servation of  their  own  time. 

In  France  the  political  situation  was  one  to  provoke  atten- 
tion in  an  observer  of  government.  Under  Francis  the  First, 
who  came  to  the  throne  in  1515,  the  royal  power  reached  the 
highest  point  of  concentration  which  it  had  yet  attained. 
The  nobles  were  no  longer  independent,  and  while  they,  with 
the  clergy  and  the  third  estate  were  represented  in  the  States 
General,  as  a  matter  of  fact  that  assembly  was  called  to- 
gether so  infrequently  that  it  had  almost  no  opportunity  even 
to  try  to  check  the  will  of  the  sovereign. 

The  change  from  feudal  life,  where  every  baron  lived  by 
himself  with  his  own  retinue  about  him,  to  a  condition  where 
such  armed  independence  was  neither  necessary  nor  allowed, 
produced  an  alteration  in  social  life.  Francis  established  a 
court,  gathering  about  him  the  nobility  with  their  wives  and 
daughters,  and  all  the  men  of  literary  and  artistic  ability 
throughout  the  kingdom. 

The  king  himself  was  not  only  alert  in  the  wars  which  he 
pushed  into  Italy  and  in  his  struggle  against  the  pretensions 
of  the  emperor,  Charles  V — he  was  also  alive  to  the  quicken- 
ing of  the  Renaissance  in  all  its  aspects.  Writers,  architects, 
and  artists  knew  that  his  regard  might  be  counted  upon  for 
the  material  support  of  their  activities.  What  he  had  seen 
in  Italy  gave  him  a  spur  toward  the  attainment  of  new 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH      87 

knowledge  and  new  beauties  for  the  benefit  of  his  kingdom. 
The  discovery  of  America  opened  new  opportunities  for  com- 
merce of  which  he  took  advantage  by  encouraging  the  build- 
ing of  ships  and  their  equipment  by  traders  and  explorers. 

The  Renaissance  was  the  rebirth  of  the  classic;  the  Human- 
ist movement  was  the  shift  of  admiration  from  the  ascetic  to 
a  more  human  attitude  toward  life  and  art.  In  addition  to 
these  stimulating  and  enriching  influences  there  came  into 
the  sixteenth  century  a  force  making  for  independence  of 
thought.  This  was  the  Reformation.  The  seed  of  the  Ref- 
ormation was  sown  when  the  invention  of  printing  permitted 
the  Bible  to  be  distributed  among  the  people,  who  read  it 
more  attentively,  and,  through  their  new  knowledge  of  the 
classics,  more  intelligently  than  had  been  possible  before. 
With  greater  knowledge  came  questionings  as  to  the  inter- 
pretations which  had  been  placed  upon  the  Book  by  the 
church.  Beside  the  revolt  against  current  theological  teach- 
ings there  was  grave  disapproval  of  the  manner  of  life  of  the 
clergy,  and  within  the  church  itself  there  was  protest  against 
misuse  of  money  and  of  power.  Martin  Luther,  a  German 
monk,  led  the  attack.  The  movement  became  popular 
throughout  the  West,  sowing  seeds  of  bitterness  and  strife 
which  caused  France  many  decades  of  civil  war. 

Like  Luther  in  Germany,  John  Calvin  was  the  leader  of 
reformed  thought  in  France.  Practically  exiled,  he  sent  forth 
his  writings  from  Geneva.  His  "Institutes  of  the  Christian 
Religion"  was  an  explanation  of  Protestantism  addressed  to 
his  king,  Francis  I. 

Indirect  agents  of  the  development  of  the  Reformation 
were  two  men,  Rabelais  and  Montaigne,  whose  names  are 
not  associated  with  what  would  be  called  religious  writing, 
though  they  must  be  classed  as  moral  teachers.  Rabelais 
was  the  Dean  Swift  of  France,  a  satirical,  far-seeing,  coarse 
and  caustic  commentator  upon  the  life  of  his  day.  In  his 


88  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

tales  of  the  family  of  giants,  Gargantua  and  Pantagruel  and 
their  kin,  he  painted  in  allegory  the  changing  attitude  of 
society.  Incidentally  his  burlesque  of  the  old  "romance" 
changed  that  form  of  literature  into  a  more  modern  aspect, 
and  at  the  same  time  his  use  of  phrases  from  classic  literature 
made  merry  over  the  craze  of  the  moment.  He  had  been  a 
monk  before  he  became  a  physician,  and  while  he  wrote  his 
stories  to  entertain  his  patients,  he  seized  the  opportunity 
to  rail  vehemently  at  the  life  and  the  practices  of  the  monks. 

In  quite  another  literary  field  Montaigne  subtly  under- 
mined the  old  philosophical  teachings  by  his  essays,  whose 
themes  always  revolved  about  the  question,  "What  do  I 
know?"  Brilliant,  suave,  intelligent,  learned,  clever,  he  did 
more  than  any  other  writer,  even  Calvin,  to  arouse  inde- 
pendence of  thought  in  the  great  body  of  the  people. 

The  latter  half  of  the  sixteenth  century  was  given  over  to 
the  rrtost  horrible  of  dissensions,  that  which  is  not  only  a 
quarrel  between  brothers,  but  is  also  a  quarrel  on  the  most 
hate-inspiring  of  subjects,  religion. 

Francis  I  had  been  succeeded  by  his  son,  Henry  II.  His 
wife  was  Catherine  de  Medici,  whose  Italian  sympathies 
were,  of  course,  with  the  Catholics.  Her  son,  Francis  II, 
husband  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  died  after  only  a  year's 
reign,  and  Catherine  was  regent  during  the  minority  of  her 
next  son,  Charles  IX.  She  chose  for  her  adviser  Michel  de 
1'Hopital,  a  Catholic  of  broad  mind,  but  even  his  strength  was 
unable  to  prevent  the  friction  between  the  old  party  and  the 
new.  A  civil  war  broke  out,  the  most  awful  event  of  which 
was  the  massacre  of  the  Protestants— the  Huguenots — on 
Saint  Bartholomew's  Day,  whose  slaughter  filled  Charles's 
dying  moments  with  the  agony  of  remorse.  Henry  III,  who 
followed  his  brother  Charles,  was  quite  incompetent  to 
manage  either  his  own  party,  the  Catholics,  who  were  still 
controlled  by  the  once  Italian  family  of  the  Guises,  or  the 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH     89 

Protestants,  who  were  led  by  the  House  of  Navarre.  Henry 
was  assassinated,  and  by  a  strange  turn  of  fortune,  a  Protes- 
tant monarch  came  to  the  throne  in  the  person  of  Henry  of 
Navarre,  who  ruled  as  Henry  IV.  He  won  the  battle  of  Ivry, 
so  vigorously  sung  by  Macaulay,  but  in  order  to  gain  Paris 
he  became  a  Catholic,  declaring  that  "so  fair  a  city  was  well 
worth  a  mass."  His  sympathy  with  the  Protestants  induced 
him,  however,  to  issue  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  which  gave  the 
Huguenots  their  long-sought  rights. 

Henry's  diplomatic  attitude  toward  both  parties  won  him 
the  united  love  of  his  people,  and  the  country  was  regaining 
its  prosperity  under  his  encouragement  of  commerce,  agri- 
culture, and  industry,  when  (in  1610)  he  met  his  death  by  the 
poignard  of  an  assassin. 

The  literature  of  this  vivid  period  must  be  looked  at  as  the 
product  of  the  three  influences  which  have  been  detailed — the 
Renaissance,  the  Humanist  movement,  and  the  Reformation. 
With  the  exception  of  a  few  out-standing  names  such  as 
Rabelais,  Calvin,  and  Montaigne,  among  prose  writers,  and 
Marot  and  Ronsard  among  poets,  the  roster  for  the  hundred 
years  is  not  important.  Men  were  too  busy  to  write  during 
those  decades  of  learning  and  thinking  and  fighting,  but  the 
century  must,  nevertheless,  be  considered  as  one  in  which 
the  seeds  were  sown  for  the  remarkable  fruitage  in  every 
literary  form  during  the  seventeenth  century,  the  "Great 
Century"  of  French  literature.  For  this  reason  the  sixteenth 
may  be  looked  upon  as  a  century  of  beginnings.  Certain  it 
is  that  the  French  language  in  its  present  form  and  French 
literature  in  its  modern  aspects,  began  under  Francis  I. 

Commynes  was  mentioned  in  the  previous  chapter  because 
he  lived  in  the  fifteenth  century.  His  work,  however,  was  not 
published  until  after  his  death,  so  that  its  influence  properly 
belongs  in  the  sixteenth  century.  Undoubtedly  it  received 
at  that  later  day  a  more  cordial  welcome  than  it  would  have 


90  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

won  for  its  author  in  his  lifetime,  for  he  was,  without  ques- 
tion, in  advance  of  his  period. 

RABELAIS  (1495-1553)  was  a  product  of  all  three  of  the 
influences  of  the  century.  His  humor  will  be  noted  in  the 
following  extracts,  and  it  may  readily  be  seen  that  it  would 
win  for  him,  as  for  our  own  "Mr.  Dooley,"  an  eager  audience 
who  would  drink  in  the  philosophy  with  the  fun. 

THE  WISDOM  OF  FOOLS 

(From  "  Half  Hours  with  the  Best  French  Authors  ") 

I  have  often  heard  it  said  as  a  common  proverb,  that  a  wise  man  may 
be  taught  by  a  fool.  If  you  are  not  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  replies 
of  the  wise  man,  take  counsel  of  a  fool;  it  may  be  that,  by  so  doing,  you 
will  get  an  answer  more  to  your  mind. 

At  Paris,  in  the  house  of  the  Petit-Chastelet,  before  the  cook-shop  of 
one  of  the  roast-meat  sellers,  a  certain  hungry  porter  was  eating  his 
bread  in  the  steam  of  the  roast  meat,  and  found  it,  so  seasoned,  extremely 
savoury.  The  cook  took  no  notice.  At  last,  when  all  the  bread  was 
devoured,  the  cook  seized  him  by  the  collar,  and  wanted  him  to  pay 
for  the  smell  of  the  meat.  The  porter  said  that  he  had  sustained  no 
loss  at  all,  that  he  had  taken  nothing  of  his,  and  that  he  owed  him  noth- 
ing. As  for  the  smell  in  question,  it  had  been  steaming  out  into  the 
street,  and  in  this  way  was  wasted;  such  a  thing  as  selling  the  smell  of 
roast  meat  in  the  street  had  never  been  heard  of  in  Paris.  The  cook  re- 
plied that  the  smell  of  his  meat  was  not  meant  to  feed  porters,  and  swore 
that  if  he  did  not  pay  he  would  take  away  his  truck.  The  porter  seized 
his  cudgel  and  prepared  to  defend  himself. 

The  altercation  became  serious.  The  idle  people  of  Paris  ran  together 
from  all  parts  to  witness  the  dispute.  Thither,  a  propos,  came  Seigni 
Joan,  the  fool,  a  citizen  of  Paris.  Seeing  him,  the  cook  said  to  the  porter, 
"Shall  we  refer  our  difference  to  the  noble  Seigni  Joan?"  "Agreed," 
replied  the  porter.  Then  Seigni  Joan,  having  heard  the  cause  of  their 
quarrel,  commanded  the  porter  to  take  a  piece  of  money  from  his  belt. 
The  porter  put  a  Philippus  in  his  hand.  Seigni  Joan  took  it  and  put 
it  on  his  left  shoulder,  as  if  to  try  its  weight;  then  made  it  ring  on  the 
palm  of  his  left  hand,  as  if  to  hear  if  it  was  good;  then  placed  it  close 
to  his  right  eye,  as  if  to  see  if  it  was  properly  stamped.  While  all  this 
was  done  the  idle  people  waited  in  profound  silence,  the  master  in  steady 
expectation  and  the  porter  in  despair.  At  last  he  made  it  ring  on  the 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH    91 

counter  several  times.  Then  with  presidential  majesty,  holding  his 
bauble  in  his  hand  as  if  it  were  a  sceptre,  and  muffling  his  head  in  a 
hood  of  martin  skins,  each  side  of  which  resembled  an  ape's  face,  with 
ears  of  paper  plaited  in  points,  first  coughing  two  or  three  times,  he 
said  in  a  loud  voice,  "The  court  decrees  that  the  porter  who  has  eaten 
his  bread  in  the  fumes  of  the  roast  meat,  has  paid  the  cook  according  to 
law,  with  the  sound  of  his  money.  The  said  court  ordains  that  each 
retire  to  his  own  house  without  costs."  And  this  sentence  of  the  Parisian 
fool  appeared  so  equitable,  in  fact  so  admirable  to  the  above-named 
doctors,  that  they  doubted,  if  the  matter  had  been  brought  before  the 
Parliament  of  the  said  place,  even  before  the  Areopagites,  to  be  decided, 
if  it  would  have  been  settled  more  legally.  So,  consider  if  you  will  take 
counsel  from  a  fool. 

"THE  STORM 

The  next  day  we  passed  on  the  right  hand  side  of  a  huge  boat  laden 
with  Monks,  Jacobins,  Jesuits,  Capuchins,  Hermits,  Augustins,  Ber- 
nardines,  Celestines,  Theatins,  Egnatins,  Amadeans,  Cordeliers,  Car- 
melites, Minims,  and  other  holy  men  of  religion  who  were  on  their  way 
to  the  council  of  Chesil  to  discuss  the  articles  of  faith  against  the  new 
heretics.  Seeking  them,  Panurge  waxed  exceeding  joyful,  as  if  assured 
of  all  good  fortune  during  that  day  and  other  subsequent  days  for  a  long 
time.  And  having  courteously  saluted  the  blessed  fathers  and  commended 
the  salvation  of  his  soul  to  their  devout  prayers  and  especial  appeals, 
he  had  seventy-eight  dozen  hams,  a  number  of  jars  of  caviar,  some  tons 
of  sausages,  hundreds  of  salted  mullet's  eggs  and  two  thousand  fine 
cheeses  thrown  into  their  boat  for  the  souls  of  the  dead.  Pantagruel 
remained  thoughtful  and  melancholy.  Brother  John  noticed  it  and  was 
inquiring  whence  came  such  unusual  sadness,  when  the  pilot,  observing 
the  fluttering  of  the  pennant  on  the  stern  and  foreseeing  a  mighty  storm 
and  a  fresh  tempest, ordered  everybody  to  be  on  the  alert,  sailors,  stewards, 
cabin  boys,  and  the  rest  of  us  travellers,  too;  he  shortened  the  sails,  had 
the  bowlines  made  taut,  the  foremast  and  the  topmast  strengthened, 
the  great  mizzenmast  lowered,  and  almost  all  the  yards  stowed.  Sud- 
denly the  sea  began  to  swell  and  to  rage  from  its  deepest  abysses;  huge 
waves  beat  against  our  vessel's  sides;  the  northwest  wind  was  accom- 
panied by  an  unbridled  hurricane,  dark  water  spouts,  and  terrible  whirl- 
winds, and  deadly  squalls  whistled  through  our  yards;  the  heavens  on 
high  thundered  and  rumbled,  lightened,  rained,  hailed;  the  atmosphere 
lost  its  clearness,  and  became  opaque,  cloudy  and  dark,  so  that  no  other 
•  From  "  Pantagruel." 


92  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

light  appeared  to  us  than  that  of  thunder  bursts,  lightning  flashes  and 
the  tearing  of  flaming  clouds.  .  .  .  You  can  imagine  that  this  seemed 
to  us  like  chaos  of  old,  beneath  which  were  fire,  air,  sea,  land,  all  the 
elements  in  turbulent  confusion. 

Panurge,  having  handsomely  feasted  the  scavenger  fish  with  the  con- 
tents of  his  stomach,  lay  on  the  deck  in  a  state  of  deep  affliction,  thor- 
oughly used  up  and  half  dead;  he  called  to  his  aid  all  the  blessed  saints, 
male  and  female,  vowed  to  confess  at  an  early  opportunity,  then  cried 
out  in  great  fear,  saying,  "  Steward,  here,  friend,  father,  uncle,  bring  me 
a  bit  of  salt  pork;  it  looks  to  me  as  if  presently  we  should  have  only  too 
much  to  drink.  Soon  I  shall  eat  little  and  drink  much.  Would  to  God 
and  the  blessed,  worthy  and  holy  Virgin  that  now,  at  once,  I  might  be 
at  my  ease  on  terra  firma!  O  thrice  happy  and  even  fourfold  are  they 
who  plant  cabbages!  O  Fates,  why  did  you  not  spin  my  thread  as  a 
planter  of  cabbages!  Oh  how  small  is  the  number  of  those  to  whom 
Jupiter  has  granted  this  favor,  that  he  has  destined  them  to  plant  cab- 
bages !  For  they  always  have  one  foot  on  land  and  the  other  not  far  from 
it.  Quarrel  over  happiness  and  the  sovereign  good  as  you  will,  but  he 
who  plants  cabbages  is  hereby,  by  my  decree,  pronounced  superlatively 
happy,  with  much  better  reason  than  Pyrrhus,  who,  being  in  like  danger 
to  ours  and  seeing  near  the  river  bank  a  pig  eating  garbage  that  had 
been  thrown  out  there,  declared  him  to  be  very  happy  for  two  reasons, 
first,  because  he  had  garbage  in  abundance,  and  then,  especially  because 
he  was  on  land.  Ha!  for  a  godlike  and  lordly  manor  there  is  nothing  like 
a  cow  shed !  This  wave  will  sweep  us  away,  O  God  our  Savior !  0  friends ! 
Vinegar,  I  beg!  I  am  sweating  and  fainting.  Alas,  the  sails  are  torn, 
the  galley  is  smashed,  the  yard  rings  are  cracking,  the  topmast  is  dipping 
in  the  sea;  the  keel  is  turned  to  the  sun,  our  ropes  are  almost  all  broken. 
Alas,  alas,  where  are  our  bowlines?  All  is  lost,  by  Heaven!  Our  mast 
is  by  the  board.  Alas,  whose  will  be  this  wreck?  Friends,  stretch  me 
out  here  behind  the  taffrail.  Children,  your  lantern  has  fallen.  Alas, 
do  not  abandon  the  discharge  pipe  from  the  pumps  nor  the  handle  thereof. 
I  hear  the  pump's  barrel  shuddering.  Is  it  broken?  For  Heaven's  sake, 
let's  save  the  stays  and  not  worry  about  the  bolts.  *  Bebebe,  bous,  bous, 
bous.  Look  at  the  needle  of  your  compass,  for  pity's  sake,  master  Star- 
lover,  and  see  whence  this  tempest  has  come  upon  us.  Upon  my  word, 
I  am  thoroughly  frightened.  Bon,  bou,  bou,  bous,  bous.  It's  all  over  with 
me.  Bou,  bou,  bou,  bou.  Otto  to  to  to  to  ti.  Bou,  bou,  bou,  ou,  ou,  ou,  bou, 
bou,  bous,  bous.  I  am  drowning.  I  am  drowning.  I  am  dying,  good  folk, 
I  am  dying. 

*  Burlesque  on  animal  sounds  in  Aristophanes'  "Frogs." 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH    93 

Independence  of  thought  marked  CALVIN  (1509-1563) 
both  as  man  and  theologian.  With  comparatively  little 
moderation  his  doctrine  has  held  to  the  present  day;  his  style 
is  clear  and  decisive.  These  qualities,  together  with  his  logic, 
are  evident  in  the  appeal  which  he  made  to  King  Francis  for 
a  righteous  judgment  on  the  truths  which  he  asserted  and 
on  the  people  who  believed  them. 

Seeing  that  the  fury  of  certain  wicked  men  was  so  aroused  in  your 
Kingdom  that  it  had  left  no  opportunity  for  any  sound  doctrine,  it 
seemed  to  me  expedient  to  make  this  book  serve  as  much  for  the  instruc- 
tion of  those  who  in  the  first  place  I  was  eager  to  teach,  as  also  for  a 
confession  of  faith  to  you:  that  you  might  know  what  the  doctrine  is 
against  which  those  who  are  disturbing  your  Kingdom  today  by  fire 
and  sword  are  so  furiously  inflamed  with  such  rage.  For  I  shall  have  no 
shame  in  confessing  that  I  have  here  comprised  a  summary,  as  it  were, 
of  that  same  doctrine  which  they  think  ought  to  be  punished  by  prison, 
banishment,  proscription  and  fire;  and  which  they  declare  ought  to  be 
driven  away  from  land  and  sea.  Well  do  I  know  with  what  horrible 
tales  they  have  filled  your  ears  and  your  heart  to  make  our  cause  hateful 
to  you;  but  you  must  consider  according  to  your  clemency  and  gentle- 
ness that  there  would  be  no  innocence  in  words  or  deeds  if  accusations 
were  all.  Certainly  if  some  one,  to  rouse  hatred  against  this  doctrine 
in  whose  behalf  I  am  obliged  to  address  you,  presents  the  argument  that 
it  is  already  condemned  by  the  common  consent  of  all  classes,  that  it 
has  had  several  decrees  declared  against  it,  he  will  say  nothing  more 
weighty  than  that  it  has  been,  on  the  one  hand,  violently  opposed  by 
the  power  and  the  conspiracy  of  its  opponents,  on  the  other  maliciously 
oppressed  by  their  lies,  deceits,  calumnies  and  treachery.  By  force  and 
violence,  cruel  judgments  have  been  pronounced  against  it  before  it 
has  been  defended.  By  deceit  and  treachery  it  has  been  accused  cause- 
lessly of  sedition  and  evil-doing.  That  no  one  may  think  that  we  are 
complaining  of  these  things  without  reason,  you  yourself  can  bear  wit- 
ness, Sire,  by  the  number  of  false  slanders  it  has  daily  brought  to  your 
ears;  it  is  clear  that  it  has  no  other  purpose  than  to  ruin  all  government 
and  system,  to  disturb  peace,  to  abolish  law,  to  disperse  seigneuries  and 
possessions,  in  short,  to  throw  everything  into  confusion.  And  neverthe- 
less you  hear  but  the  smallest  part  of  it  all.  For  they  spread  horrible 
reports  about  it  among  the  people  which,  if  true,  would  rightly  compel 
every  one  to  believe  it  and  its  authors  worthy  of  a  thousand  fires  and  a 


94  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

thousand  gibbets.  Who  will  wonder  now  why  it  is  so  hated  by  every- 
body since  they  give  credence  to  wicked  detractions?  That  is  the  reason 
why  all  classes  with  one  accord  are  in  a  conspiracy  to  condemn  both  us 
and  our  doctrine.  Those  who  are  appointed  to  judge  it,  because  they 
are  charmed  and  delighted  with  such  an  idea,  give  as  their  decision  the 
opinion  that  they  brought  with  them  from  home  and  they  think  that 
they  have  acquitted  themselves  handsomely  of  their  duty  if  they  do  not 
condemn  any  one  to  death,  especially  those  who  either  on  their  own  ad- 
mission or  on  the  testimony  of  others,  are  converted  [to  the  doctrine]. 
"But  for  what  crime  are  they  condemned?"  "For  this  damnable  doc- 
trine," is  the  reply.  "For  what  reason  is  it  'damnable'?"  Now  this 
was  the  contention  of  the  defense — that  the  doctrine  was  not  disavowed 
but  was  supported  as  true.  Here  freedom  of  speech  is  forbidden.  For 
such  causes,  I  do  not  ask  unreasonably,  Sire,  that  you  will  deign  to  in- 
form yourself  thoroughly  concerning  this  belief,  which,  until  now,  has 
been  in  a  state  of  confusion,  unordered,  and  marked  by  impetuous  ardor 
rather  than  by  judicial  moderation  and  gravity. 

MONTAIGNE  (1533-1592)  was  a  man  of  position  who 
served  his  city  as  mayor,  his  king  at  court,  himself  in  his 
study,  and  the  thinking  world  from  his  day  to  ours  through 
the  intelligence  and  good  sense  of  his  philosophy.  His  educa- 
tion was  unusual  and  he  reaped  its  fruits  in  a  broad  love  of 
knowledge  and  in  an  ability  to  draw  from  his  reading  a  wealth 
of  illustrations  for  the  enlightenment  of  his  serious  Essays. 
Serious  they  are,  yet  their  high  moral  tone  is  penetrated  by  a 
style  so  easy,  so  flowing,  and  so  logical,  and  his  subjects  are 
chosen  and  treated  with  such  variety  that  their  teaching  is 
the  essence  of  tact  and  their  sermonizing  a  thing  to  be  desired. 
He  was  beloved  in  his  own  time — so  beloved  that  during  the 
civil  wars  both  Catholics  and  Protestants  left  him  untouched. 
His  influence  over  writers  of  later  generations  has  had  a 
distinct  effect  upon  French  letters,  and  he  is  read  today  not  as 
a  curiosity  of  literature  or  philosophy  but  for  the  living  merit 
of  his  thought. 

The  essay  form  allows  its  author  to  free  his  mind  on  every 
subject  on  which  he  cares  to  comment,  and  Montaigne  made 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH    95 

ample  use  of  his  privilege.  Here  are  a  few  pages  from  his 
outline  of  a  desirable  education,  advocating  a  method  much 
more  in  accordance  with  the  notions  of  the  twentieth  century 
than  was  the  system  in  vogue  in  the  sixteenth.  His  account 
of  the  conduct  of  a  school  ruled  by  the  rod  reads  like  the 
activities  of  Mr.  Squeers  and  his  ilk  but  a  generation  ago. 
Today  we  are  recognizing  the  expediency,  if  nothing  else,  of 
the  feather  instead  of  the  "willow  switch"  whose  use  Mon- 
taigne deplores. 

EXTRACT  FROM  THE  ESSAY  ENTITLED  "OF  THE  INSTITU- 
TION AND  EDUCATION  OF  CHILDREN;  TO  THE  LADIE 
DIANA  OF  FOIX,  COUNTESS  OF  GURSON." 

(Translated  by  John  Florio  in  1603) 

Madame,  Learning  joyned  with  true  knowledge  is  an  especiall  and 
gracefull  ornament,  and  an  implement  of  wonderfull  use  and  consequence, 
namely  in  persons  raised  to  that  degree  of  fortune,  wherein  you  are.  And 
in  good  truth,  learning  hath  not  her  owne  true  forme,  nor  can  she  make 
shew  of  her  beauteous  lineaments,  if  she  fall  into  the  hands  of  base  and 
vile  persons.  She  is  much  more  readie  and  fierce  to  lend  her  furtherance 
and  direction  in  the  conduct  of  a  warre,  to  attempt  honorable  actions,  to 
command  a  people,  to  treat  a  peace  with  a  prince  of  forraine  nation,  than 
she  is  to  forme  an  argument  in  Logick,  to  devise  a  Syllogisme,  to  canvase 
a  case  at  the  barre,  or  to  prescribe  a  receit  of  pills.  So  (noble  Ladie) 
forsomuch  as  I  cannot  perswade  my  selfe,  that  you  will  either  forget  or 
neglect  this  point,  concerning  the  institution  of  yours,  especially  having 
tasted  the  sweetnesse  thereof,  and  being  descended  of  so  noble  and 
learned  a  race.  For  we  yet  possesse  the  learned  compositions  of  the 
ancient  and  noble  Earles  of  Foix,  from  out  whose  heroicke  loynes  your 
husband  and  you  take  your  of-spring.  And  Francis  Lord  of  Candale 
your  worthie  uncle,  doth  daily  bring  forth  such  fruits  thereof,  as  the 
knowledge  of  the  matchlesse  qualitie  of  your  house  shall  hereafter  ex- 
tend it  selfe  to  many  ages;  I  will  therefore  make  you  acquainted  with  one 
conceit  of  mine,  which  contrarie  to  the  common  use  I  hold,  and  that  is 
all  I  am  able  to  affoord  you,  concerning  that  matter.  The  charge  of  the 
Tutor,  which  you  shall  appoint  your  sonne,  in  the  choice  of  whom  con- 
sisteth  the  whole  substance  of  his  education  and  bringing-up;  on  which 
are  many  branches  depending,  which  (forasmuch  as  I  can  adde  nothing 
of  any  moment  to  it)  I  will  not  touch  at  all.  And  for  that  point,  wherein 
I  presume  to  advise  him,  he  may  so  far  forth  give  credit  unto  it,  as  he 
shall  see  just  cause.  To  a  gentleman  borne  of  noble  parentage,  and  heire 
of  a  house,  that  aymeth  at  true  learning,  and  in  it  would  be  disciplined, 
not  so  much  for  gaine  or  commoditie  to  himselfe  (because  so  abject  an 
end  is  far  unworthie  the  grace  and  favour  of  the  Muses,  and  besides, 


96  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

hath  a  regard  or  dependencie  of  others)  nor  for  externall  shew  and  orna- 
ment, but  to  adorne  and  enrich  his  inward  minde,  desiring  rather  to 
shape  and  institute  an  able  and  sufficient  man,  than  a  bare  learned  man. 
My  desire  is  therefore,  that  the  parents  or  overseers  of  such  a  gentleman 
be  very  circumspect,  and  carefull  in  chusing  his  director,  whom  I  would 
rather  commend  for  having  a  well  composed  and  temperate  braine, 
than  a  full  stuft  head,  yet  both  will  doe  well.  And  I  would  rather  prefer 
wisdome,  judgement,  civill  customes,  and  modest  behaviour,  than  bare 
and  meere  literall  learning;  and  that  in  his  charge  he  hold  a  new  course. 
Some  never  cease  brawling  in  their  schollers  eares  (as  if  they  were  still 
pouring  in  a  tonell)  to  follow  their  booke,  yet  is  their  charge  nothing  else, 
but  to  repeat,  what  hath  beene  told  them  before.  I  would  have  a  tutor 
to  correct  this  part,  and  that  at  first  entrance,  according  to  the  capacitie 
of  the  wit  he  hath  in  hand,  he  should  begin  to  make  shew  of  it,  making 
him  to  have  a  smacke  of  all  things,  and  how  to  chuse  and  distinguish 
them,  without  helpe  of  others,  sometimes  opening  him  the  way,  other 
times  leaving  him  to  open  it  by  himselfe.  I  would  not  have  him  to  invent 
and  speake  alone,  but  suffer  his  disciple  to  speake  when  his  turne  com- 
meth.  Socrates,  and  after  him  Arcesilaus,  made  their  schollers  to  speak 
first,  and  then  would  speake  themselves.  Most  commonly  the  authoritie  of 
them  that  teach  hinders  them  that  would  learnc.  CICERO,  De  Natura  Rerum. 

It  is  therefore  meet,  that  he  make  him  first  trot-on  before  him,  whereby 
he  may  the  better  judge  of  his  pace,  and  so  guesse  how  long  he  will  hold 
out,  that  accordingly  he  may  fit  his  strength:  for  want  of  which  propor- 
tion, we  often  marre  all.  And  to  know  how  to  make  a  good  choice,  and 
how  far  forth  one  may  proceed  (still  keeping  a  due  measure)  is  one  of 
the  hardest  labours  I  know.  It  is  a  signe  of  a  noble,  and  effect  of  an 
undanted  spirit,  to  know  how  to  second,  and  how  far  forth  he  shall  con- 
descend to  his  childish  proceedings,  and  how  to  guide  them.  As  for  my 
selfe,  I  can  better  and  with  more  strength  walke  up,  than  downe  a  hill. 
Those  which  according  to  our  common  fashion,  undertake  with  one 
selfe-same  lesson,  and  like  maner  of  education,  to  direct  many  spirits  of 
divers  formes  and  different  humours,  it  is  no  marvell  if  among  a  multitude 
of  children,  they  scarce  meet  with  two  or  three,  that  reap  any  good  fruit 
by  their  discipline,  or  that  come  to  any  perfection.  I  would  not  only 
have  him  to  demand  an  accompt  of  the  words  contained  in  his  lesson, 
but  of  the  sense  and  substance  thereof,  and  judge  of  the  profit  he  hath 
made  of  it,  not  by  the  testimonie  of  his  memorie,  but  by  the  witnesse 
of  his  life.  That  what  he  lately  learned,  he  cause  him  to  set  forth  and 
pourtray  the  same  into  sundrie  shapes,  and  then  to  accommodate  it  to 
as  many  different  and  severall  subjects;  whereby  he  shal  perceive,  whether 
he  have  yet  apprehended  the  same,  and  therein  enfcoffed  himselfe,  at 
due  times  taking  his  instruction  from  the  institution  given  by  Plato. 
It  is  a  signe  of  cruditie  and  indigestion  for  a  man  to  yeeld  up  his  meat, 
even  as  he  swallowed  the  same:  the  stomacke  hath  not  wrought  his 
full  operation,  unlesse  it  have  changed  forme,  and  altered  fashion  of  that 
which  was  given  him  to  boyle  and  concoct. 

Our  minde  doth  move  at  others  pleasure,  as  tyed  and  forced  to  serve 
the  fantasies  of  others,  being  brought  under  by  authoritie,  and  forced 
to  stoopc  to  the  lure  of  their  bare  lesson;  wee  have  bcenc  so  subjected  to 
harpe  upon  one  string,  that  we  have  no  way  left  us  to  descant  upon  volun- 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS-THE  SIXTEENTH     97 

tarie:  our  vigor  and  libertie  is  cleane  extinct.  They  never  come  to  their 
oume  tuition.  It  was  my  hap  to  bee  familiarlie  acquainted  with  an  honest 
man  at  Pisa,  but  such  an  Aristotelian,  as  he  held  this  infallible  position; 
that  a  conformitie  to  AristoUes  doctrine  was  the  true  touchstone  and 
squire  of  all  solide  imaginations,  and  perfect  veritie;  for,  whatsoever 
had  no  coherencie  with  it,  was  but  fond  Chimcraes,  and  idle  humours; 
in  asmuch  as  he  had  knowne  all,  scene  all,  and  said  all.  This  proposition 
of  his,  being  somewhat  over  amply  and  injuriously  interpreted  by  some, 
made  him  a  long  time  after  to  be  troubled  in  the  inquisition  of  Rome. 
I  would  have  him  make  his  scholler  narrowly  to  sift  all  things  with  dis- 
cretion, and  harbour  nothing  in  his  head  by  meere  authoritie,  or  upon 
trust.  Aristoties  principles  shall  be  no  more  axiomes  unto  him,  than  the 
Stoikes  or  Epicurians.  Let  this  diversitie  of  judgments  be  proposed 
unto  him,  if  he  can,  he  shall  be  able  to  distinguish  the  truth  from  false- 
hood, if  not,  he  will  remaine  doubtfull. 

No  lesse  it  pleaseth  me, 
To  doubt,  tnan  wise  to  be. 

DANTE,  Inferno,  canto  rii.  48. 

For  if  by  his  owne  discourse  he  embrace  the  opinions  of  Xenophon,  or 
of  Plato,  they  shall  be  no  longer  theirs,  but  his.  He  that  meerely  fol- 
loweth  another,  traceth  nothing,  and  seeketh  nothing :  We  are  not  under 
a  Kings  command,  every  one  may  challenge  himselfe,  for  let  him  at  least 
know  that  he  knoweth.  SENECA,  Epistles  xxxiii.  It  is  requisite  he  en- 
devour  as  much  to  feed  himselfe  with  their  conceits,  as  labour  to  learne 
their  precepts;  which,  so  he  know  how  to  applie,  let  him  hardly  forget, 
where,  or  whence  he  had  them.  Truth  and  reason  are  common  to  all, 
and  are  no  more  proper  unto  him  that  spake  them  heretofore,  than  unto 
him  that  shall  speake  them  hereafter.  And  it  is  no  more  according  to 
Platoes  opinion,  than  to  mine,  since  both  he  and  I  understand  and  see 
alike.  The  Bees  doe  here  and  there  sucke  this,  and  cull  that  flower, 
but  afterward  they  produce  the  hony,  which  is  peculiarly  their  owne, 
then  is  it  no  more  Thyme  or  Majoram.  So  of  peeces  borrowed  of  others, 
he  may  lawfully  alter,  transforme,  and  confound  them,  to  shape  out  of 
them  a  perfect  peece  of  worke,  altogether  his  owne;  alwaies  provided, 
his  judgement,  his  travell,  studie,  and  institution  tend  to  nothing,  but 
to  frame  the  same  perfect.  Let  him  hardly  conceale,  where,  or  whence 
he  hath  had  any  helpe,  and  make  no  shew  of  any  thing,  but  of  that  which 
he  hath  made  himselfe.  Pirates,  filchers,  and  borrowers,  make  a  shew  of 
their  purchaces  and  buildings,  but  not  of  that  which  they  have  taken 
from  others:  you  see  not  the  secret  fees  or  bribes  Lawyers  take  of  their 
Clients,  but  you  shall  manifestly  discover  the  alliances  they  make,  the 
honours  they  get  for  their  children,  and  the  goodly  houses  they  build. 
No  man  makes  open  shew  of  his  receits,  but  every  one  of  his  gettings. 
The  good  that  comes  of  studie  (or  at  least  should  come)  is  to  prove  better, 
wiser,  and  honester.  It  is  the  understanding  power  (said  Epicharmus) 
that  seeth  and  heareth,  it  is  it,  that  prpfiteth  all,  and  disposeth  all,  that 
moveth,  swayeth,  and  ruleth  all:  all  things  else  are  but  blind,  senselessc, 
and  without  spirit.  And  truly  in  barring  him  of  libertie  to  doe  any  thing 
of  himselfe,  we  make  him  thereby  more  servile  and  more  coward.  Who 
would  ever  enquire  of  his  scholler  what  he  thinketh  of  Rhetorike,  of 


98  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Grammar,  of  this,  or  of  that  sentence  of  Cicero  ?  Which  things  throughly 
fethered  (as  if  they  were  oracles)  are  let  flie  into  our  memorie;  in  which 
both  letters  and  syllables  are  substantiall  parts  of  the  subject.  To  know 
by  roat  is  no  perfect  knowledge,  but  to  keep  what  one  hath  committed 
to  his  memories  charge,  is  commendable:  what  a  man  directly  knoweth, 
that  will  he  dispose  of,  without  turning  still  to  his  booke,  or  looking  to 
his  pattern.  A  meere  bookish  sufficiencie  is  unpleasant.  All  I  expect  of 
it,  is  an  imbellishing  of  my  actions,  and  not  a  foundation  of  them,  accord- 
ing to  Platoes  mind,  who  saith,  constancie,  faith,  and  sinceritie,  are  true 
Philosophic;  as  for  other  Sciences,  and  tending  else-where,  they  are  but 
garish  paintings.  I  would  faine  have  Palnel  or  Pompey,  those  two  ex- 
cellent dauncers  of  our  time,  with  all  their  nimblenesse,  teach  any  man 
to  doe  their  loftie  tricks,  and  high  capers,  only  with  seeing  them  done, 
and  without  stirring  out  of  his  place,  as  some  Pedanticall  fellowes  would 
instruct  our  minds  without  moving  or  putting  it  in  practice.  And  glad 
would  I  be  to  find  one,  that  would  teach  us  how  to  manage  a  horse,  to 
tosse  a  pike,  to  shoot-off  a  peece,  to  play  upon  the  lute,  or  to  warble 
with  the  voice,  without  any  exercise,  as  these  kind  of  men  would  teach 
us  to  judge,  and  how  to  speak  well,  without  any  exercise  of  speaking 
or  judging.  In  which  kind  of  life,  or  as  I  may  terme  it,  Prentiship,  what 
action  or  object  soever  presents  it-selfe  unto  our  eies,  may  serve  us  in 
stead  of  a  sufficient  booke.  A  prettie  pranke  of  a  boy,  a  knavish  tricke 
of  a  page,  a  foolish  part  of  a  lackey,  an  idle  tale  or  any  discourse  else, 
spoken  either  in  jest  or  earnest,  at  the  table  or  in  companie,  are  even  as 
new  subjects  for  us  to  worke-upon:  for  furtherance  whereof,  commerce 
or  common  societie  among  men,  visiting  of  forraine  countries,  and  ob- 
serving of  strange  fashions,  are  verie  necessary,  not  only  to  be  able 
(after  the  manner  of  our  yong  gallants  of  France)  to  report  how  many 
paces  the  Church  of  Santa  Rotonda  is  in  length  or  breadth,  or  as  some  do, 
nicely  to  dispute  how  much  longer  or  broader  the  face  of  Nero  is,  which 
they  have  scene  in  some  old  ruines  of  Italic,  than  that  which  is  made  for 
him  in  other  old  monuments  elsewhere.  But  they  should  principally 
observe,  and  be  able  to  make  certaine  relation  of  the  humours  and  fash- 
ions of  those  countries  they  have  scene,  that  they  may  the  better  know 
how  to  correct  and  prepare  their  wits  by  those  of  others.  I  would  there- 
fore have  him  begin  even  from  his  infancie  to  travell  abroad;  and  first, 
that  at  one  shoot  he  may  hit  two  markes,  he  should  see  neighbour- 
countries,  namely  where  languages  are  most  different  from  ours;  for, 
unlesse  a  mans  tongue  be  fashioned  unto  them  in  his  youth,  he  shall 
never  attaine  to  the  true  pronuntiation  of  them,  if  he  once  grow  in  yeares. 
Moreover,  we  see  it  received  as  a  common  opinion  of  the  wiser  sort,  that 
it  agreeth  not  with  reason,  that  a  childe  be  alwaies  nuzzled,  cockered, 
dandled,  and  brought  up  in  his  parents  lap  or  sight;  forsomuch  as  their 
naturall  kindnesse,  or  (as  I  may  call  it)  tender  fondnesse,  causeth  often, 
even  the  wisest  to  prove  so  idle,  so  over-nice,  and  so  base-minded.  For 
parents  are  not  capable,  neither  can  they  find  in  their  hearts  to  see  them 
checkt,  corrected,  or  chastised,  nor  indure  to  see  them  brought  up  so 
meanly,  and  so  far  from  daintinesse,  and  many  times  so  dangerously, 
as  they  must  needs  be.  And  it  would  grieve  them  to  see  their  children 
come  home  from  those  exercises,  that  a  Gentleman  must  necessarily 
acquaint  himselfe  with,  sometimes  all  wet  and  bemyred,  other  times 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH   99 

sweatie,  and  full  of  dust,  and  to  drinke  being  either  extreme  hot,  or 
exceeding  cold;  and  it  would  trouble  them  to  see  him  ride  a  rough-un- 
tamed horse,  or  with  his  weapon  furiously  incounter  a  skilfull  Fencer, 
or  to  handle  and  shoot-off  a  musket;  against  which  there  is  no  remedy, 
if  he  will  make  him  prove  a  sufficient,  compleat,  or  honest  man:  he  must 
not  be  spared  in  his  youth;  and  it  will  come  to  pass,  that  he  shall  many 
times  have  occasion  and  be  forced  to  shocke  the  rules  of  Physicke. 

Leade  he  his  life  in  open  aire, 
And  in  affaires  full  of  despaire. 
HORACE  i,  Odes,  ii,  4 

It  is  not  sufficient  to  make  his  minde  strong,  his  muskles  must  also 
be  strengthened:  the  minde  is  over-borne  if  it  be  not  seconded:  and  it 
is  too  much  for  her  alone  to  discharge  two  offices.  I  have  a  feeling  how 
mine  panteth,  being  jpyned  to  so  tender  and  sensible  a  bodie,  and  that 
lieth  so  heavie  upon  it.  And  in  my  lecture,  I  often  perceive  how  my 
Authors  in  their  writings  sometimes  commend  examples  for  magnanim- 
itie  and  force,  that  rather  proceed  from  a  thicke  skin  and  hardnes  of 
the  bones.  I  have  knowne  men,  women,  and  children  borne  of  so  hard 
a  constitution,  that  a  blow  with  a  cudgell  would  lesse  hurt  them,  than 
a  filip  would  doe  me,  and  so  dull  and  blockish,  that  they  will  neither  stir 
tongue  nor  eye-browes,  beat  them  never  so  much.  When  wrestlers  goe 
about  to  counterfeit  the  Philosophers  patience,  they  rather  shew  the 
vigor  of  their  sinnewes,  than  of  their  heart.  For  the  custome  to  beare 
travell,  is  to  tolerate  griefe:  Labour  -worketh  a  hardnesse  upon  sorrow. 
CICERO.  Hee  must  be  enured  to  suffer  the  paine  and  hardnesse  of  exer- 
cises, that  so  he  may  be  induced  to  endure  the  paine  of  the  colicke,  of 
cauterie,  of  fals,  of  sprains,  and  other  diseases  incident  to  mans  bodie: 
yea,  if  need  require,  patiently  to  beare  imprisonment,  and  other  tortures, 
by  which  sufferance  he  shall  come  to  be  had  in  more  esteeme  and  ac- 
compt:  for  according  to  time  and  place,  the  good  as  well  as  the  bad  man 
may  haply  fall  into  them;  we  have  seen  it  by  experience.  Whosoever 
striveth  against  the  lawes,  threats  good  men  with  mischiefe  and  extortion. 
Moreover,  the  authoritie  of  the  Tutor  (who  should  be  soveraigne  over  him) 
is  by  the  cockering  and  presence  of  the  parents,  hindred  and  interrupted: 
besides  the  awe  and  respect  which  the  houshold  beares  him,  and  the 
knowledge  of  the  meanes,  possibilities,  and  greatnesse  of  his  house,  are 
in  my  judgement,  no  small  lets  in  a  young  Gentleman.  In  this  schoole 
of  commerce,  and  societie  among  men,  I  have  often  noted  this  vice,  that 
in  lieu  of  taking  acquaintance  of  others,  we  only  endevour  to  make  our 
selves  knowne  to  them:  and  we  are  more  ready  to  utter  such  merchandize 
as  we  have,  than  to  ingrosse  and  purchase  new  commodities.  Silence 
and  modestie  are  qualities  verie  convenient  to  civil  conversation.  It 
is  also  necessary,  that  a  young  man  be  rather  taught  to  be  discreetly- 
sparing,  and  close-handed,  than  prpdigally-wastfull  and  lavish  in  his 
expences,  and  moderate  in  husbanding  his  wealth  when  he  shall  come 
to  possesse  it.  And  not  to  take  pepper  in  the  nose  for  every  foolish  tale 
that  shal  be  spoken  in  his  presence,  because  it  is  an  uncivil  importunity, 
to  contradict,  whatsoever  is  not  agreeing  to  our  humour:  let  him  be  pleased 
to  correct  himself. 


100  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Montaigne  tells  us  with  engaging  frankness  what  he  thinks 
about  old  writers  and  modern  and  his  criticisms  are  shrewd 
and  well-balanced.  His  praise  of  Paris  is  widely  quoted. 

I  am  not  unmindful  of  the  fact  that  I  am  never  so  rebellious  against 
France  as  not  to  look  kindly  on  Paris.  She  has  had  my  heart  since  my 
childhood,  and  it  has  happened  to  me,  as  it  usually  does  with  excellent 
things,  that  the  more  I  have  seen  other  cities,  the  more  the  beauty  of 
this  one  has  won  my  affection;  I  love  her  for  herself,  more  for  what  she 
is  alone  than  when  she  is  decked  with  elegancies  from  abroad.  I  love 
her  tenderly,  even  her  scars  and  stains;  I  am  French  only  as  I  belong  to 
this  great  city,  great  in  population,  great  in  the  good  fortune  of  her  situa- 
tion; but  especially  great  and  incomparable  in  the  variety  and  diversity 
of  her  commodities.  She  is  the  glory  of  France  and  one  of  the  noblest 
ornaments  of  the  world.  May  God  drive  strife  far  from  us!  One  and 
united,  I  find  her  unassailable  by  other  violence;  I  warn  her  that  of  all 
conditions,  that  will  be  the  worst  which  will  plunge  her  into  discord, 
and  I  urge  her  to  fear  nothing  except  herself,  and  to  fear  for  herself  as 
much,  surely,  as  for  any  other  part  of  these  states.  As  long  as  it  lasts  I 
shall  not  be  without  a  retreat  for  my  extremity,  sufficient  to  make  me 
lose  desire  for  any  other  retreat. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  century  FRANCIS  DE  SALES  (1567- 
1622),  bishop  of  Geneva,  wrote  doctrinal  and  meditative 
treatises  which  mark  the  advent  of  more  peaceful  days  in 
the  religious  controversy.  He  was  a  favorite  with  Henry  of 
Navarre,  who  had  something  of  the  prelate's  catholicity  of 
spirit,  and  the  gentleness  and  spirituality  of  his  appeal  have 
made  him  read  and  beloved  even  to  the  present  time.  His 
style  is  winning,  his  illustrations  drawn  from  nature,  his  tone 
both  tender  and  elevated. 

FROM  TREATISE  ON  THE  LOVE  OF  GOD 
He  who  has  listened  for  some  time  to  the  pleasant  morning  warbling 
from  the  neighboring  thickets  of  many  canaries,  linets,  gold  finches,  and 
other  small  birds,  and  hears  at  last  a  nightingale  fill  the  air  with  the 
perfect  melody  of  his  wonderful  voice,  doubtless  prefers  this  single  hedge- 
row songster  to  the  whole  feathered  flock.  In  like  manner,  after  hearing 
all  the  praises  which  so  many  different  creatures  vie  with  cadi  other  to 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH    101 

offer  to  their  Creator,  when  at  last  one  hears  that  of  the  Savior,  one 
finds  in  it  a  certain  infinity  of  merit,  of  value,  of  suavity  which  surpasses 
all  hope  or  expectation  of  the  heart,  and  then  the  soul,  as  if  awakened 
from  a  deep  sleep,  is  suddenly  ravished  by  the  extreme  sweetness  of 
such  a  melody. 

"Ah,  I  hear  it,  Oh  the  voice,  the  voice  of  my  well-beloved,"  the  voice 
which  is  queen  of  all  voices,  the  voice  beside  which  other  voices  are  but 
a  dumb  and  mournful  silence. 

"  Father  of  French  letters"  was  the  title  given  to  FRANCIS  I 
(who  reigned  from  1515-1547)  in  recognition  of  his  encour- 
agement of  literature.  He  summoned  scholars  to  court  and 
he  established  the  College  of  France  for  the  study  of  Greek. 
He  watched  the  progress  of  letters  with  a  jealous  as  well  as 
approving  eye,  for  he  established  a  censorship  which  passed 
upon  the  publication  of  all  books,  and  he  even  decreed  the 
execution  of  two  writers  who  disobeyed  his  ordinances.  His 
own  pen  was  not  inapt.  Here  is  his 

EPITAPH  ON  AGNES  SOREL 

(From  Longfellow's  "Poetry  of  Europe") 

Here  lies  entombed  the  fairest  of  the  fair: 
To  her  rare  beauty  greater  praise  be  given, 

Than  holy  maids  in  cloistered  cells  may  share, 
Or  hermits  that  in  deserts  live  for  heaven! 

For  by  her  charms  recovered  France  arose, 

Shook  off  her  chains,  and  triumphed  o'er  her  foes. 

Francis's  sister,  MARGUERITE  OF  VALOIS  (1492-1549) 
Queen  of  Navarre,  gathered  about  her  a  group  of  writers,  not 
brilliant,  but  graceful  and  earnest.  Marguerite  herself  was  a 
woman  of  extraordinary  ability,  the  mistress  of  many  lan- 
guages, the  author  of  tender  verse  and  dashing  prose,  a 
Catholic  friend  of  Protestants,  and  an  influential  adviser  of 
Francis,  whom  she  loved  with  more  than  sisterly  tenderness. 
At  his  death  she  wrote 


102  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

*  'Tis  done,  a  father,  mother,  gone, 

A  sister,  brother,  torn  away, 
My  hope  is  now  in  God  alone, 

Whom  heaven  and  earth  alike  obey. 
Above,  beneath,  to  him  is  known, — 
The  world's  wide  compass  is  his  own. 

I  love, — but  in  the  world  no  more, 

Nor  in  gay  hall  or  festal  bower; 
Not  the  fair  forms  I  prized  before, — 

But  Him,  all  beauty,  wisdom,  power, 
My  Saviour,  who  has  cast  a  chain 
On  sin  and  ill  and  woe  and  pain! 

I  from  my  memory  have  effaced 
All  former  joys,  all  kindred,  friends; 

All  honors  that  my  station  graced 
I  hold  but  snares  that  fortune  sends; 

Hence!  joys  by  Christ  at  distance  cast, 

That  we  may  be  his  own  at  last! 

Modelled  on  Boccaccio's  "Decameron"  is  Marguerite's 
"Heptameron,"  the  story  of  the  seven  days'  diversions  of  a 
party  of  travellers.  Here  are  two  of  the  stories. 

FIFTY-FIFTH  TALE 

The  widow  of  a  merchant  carries  out  her  husband's  will,  interpreting 
its  meaning  to  the  advantage  of  herself  and  her  children. 

In  the  town  of  Saragossa  there  was  a  rich  merchant,  who,  seeing  that 
death  was  approaching  and  that  he  could  no  longer  keep  his  property, 
which  he  had  acquired,  perhaps,  in  wicked  ways,  thought  that  by  making 
some  trifling  gift  to  God,  he  would,  after  his  death,  make  amends  in 
part  for  his  sins;  as  if  God  gave  pardon  for  money!  And  when  he  had 
ordered  the  affairs  of  his  house,  he  said  that  he  wished  that  a  fine  Spanish 
horse  that  he  had  should  be  sold  for  as  large  a  sum  as  possible  and  the 
money  given  to  the  poor,  begging  his  wife  that  she  should  not  fail,  as 
soon  as  he  was  dead,  to  sell  the  horse  and  to  distribute  this  money  ac- 
cording to  his  direction. 

When  the  burial  was  over  and  the  first  tears  had  fallen,  the  wife,  who 

*Frora  Longfellow's  "Poetry  of  Europe." 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH    103 

was  not  any  more  foolish  than  Spanish  women  usually  are,  approached 
the  servant  who  had  heard  his  master's  wish  with  her. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  met  a  sufficient  loss  in  the  person  of  the 
husband  whom  I  loved  so  dearly  without  losing  his  property  now.  I 
do  not  want  to  disobey  his  command  but  rather  to  carry  out  his  purpose 
in  a  better  way;  for  the  poor  man,  led  by  the  avarice  of  the  Priests, 
thought  he  would  make  a  great  sacrifice  to  God  by  giving  after  his  death 
a  sum  of  which,  as  you  know,  he  would  not  have  given  a  crown  during 
his  lifetime,  even  for  extreme  need.  Therefore,  I  have  decided  that  we 
will  do  what  he  ordered  at  his  death  and  even  better  than  he  would  have 
done  if  he  had  lived  a  fortnight  longer,  but  no  one  in  the  world  must 
know  anything  about  it." 

And,  when  she  had  the  servant's  promise  to  keep  it  secret,  she  said  to 
him:  "You  will  go  forth  to  sell  his  horse,  and  to  anyone  who  asks  you 
'How  much?'  you  will  say:  'One  ducat;'  but  I  have  an  especially  fine 
cat  which  I  wish  to  offer  for  sale,  too,  and  you  will  sell  it  at  the  same  time 
for  ninety-nine  ducats,  so  that  cat  and  horse  together  will  yield  the  hun- 
dred ducats  for  which  my  husband  expected  to  sell  the  horse  alone." 

The  servant  promptly  carried  out  his  mistress's  command  and,  as  he 
was  leading  his  horse  through  the  square,  holding  his  cat  in  his  arms, 
a  certain  gentleman  who  had  previously  seen  the  horse  and  wished  to 
own  him,  asked  the  man  how  much  he  wanted  for  him. 

"One  ducat,"  the  fellow  answered. 

"Don't  jest,  I  beg,"  the  gentleman  returned. 

"I  assure  you,  sir,"  said  the  servant,  "that  he  will  cost  you  but  one 
ducat.  It  is  true  that  the  purchaser  must  buy  the  cat,  too,  and  I  must 
have  ninety-nine  ducats  for  him." 

At  once  the  gentleman,  who  considered  that  he  had  a  reasonable 
bargain,  paid  him  promptly  one  ducat  for  the  horse  and  the  remainder 
as  he  had  requested,  and  led  off  his  purchase. 

On  his  part,  the  servant  carried  away  the  money,  over  which  his 
mistress  was  highly  delighted,  and  did  not  fail  to  give  the  ducat  for  which 
the  horse  had  been  sold  to  the  Poor  Mendicants,  as  her  husband  had 
commanded,  and  kept  the  remainder  for  the  benefit  of  herself  and  her 
children. 

FIFTY-SEVENTH  TALE 

For  seven  years  an  English  Lord  was  in  love  with  a  lady  without  dar- 
ing to  tell  her  about  it,  until  one  day,  when  he  was  gazing  at  her  in  a 
meadow,  he  lost  all  color  and  all  control  of  expression  through  a  sudden 
palpitation  of  the  heart  that  seized  him;  then  she,  showing  her  pity  for 


104  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

him,  at  his  request  laid  her  gloved  hand  over  his  heart.  He  pressed  it  so 
ardently  while  telling  her  of  the  love  that  he  had  long  borne  her,  that 
where  she  had  laid  her  hand  her  glove  remained.  Later  he  enriched  it 
with  precious  stones  and  fastened  it  upon  his  doublet  on  the  side  of  his 
heart,  and  was  so  truly  and  worthily  her  servant  that  he  never  asked  any 
greater  privilege. 

King  Louis  XI  sent  to  England  as  his  ambassador  Lord  de  Mont- 
morency,  who  was  so  welcome  there  that  the  King  and  all  the  Princes 
esteemed  him  highly  and  were  fond  of  him,  and  even  sought  his  advice 
concerning  some  of  their  private  affairs. 

One  day,  being  present  at  a  banquet  which  the  King  gave  for  him, 
there  was  seated  near  him  a  nobleman  of  high  rank  who  wore  fastened 
upon  his  doublet  a  little  glove  such  as  women  wear,  with  gold  hooks, 
and  on  the  finger  seams  there  were  many  diamonds,  rubies,  emeralds 
and  pearls,  so  that  this  glove  was  considered  of  great  value.  Lord  de 
Montmorency  looked  at  it  so  often  that  the  nobleman  noticed  that  he 
wished  to  ask  him  the  reason  why  it  was  so  richly  furnished,  and  because 
he  thought  the  account  was  greatly  to  his  credit  he  began  the  relation. 

"I  see  that  you  think  it  strange  that  I  have  decked  out  a  poor  glove 
so  gorgeously,  and  I  am  even  more  eager  to  tell  you  the  story,  for  I  take 
you  to  be  an  intelligent  man  and  one  who  knows  what  sort  of  passion 
love  is.  So  that  if  I  did  well  you  will  praise  me  for  it,  or,  if  not,  you  will 
forgive  me  because  of  the  love  that  rules  all  worthy  hearts. 

"You  must  know  that  all  my  life  I  have  loved  a  Lady,  that  I  love  her 
now  and  shall  love  her  after  death,  and  because  my  heart  was  bolder 
in  placing  its  affection  than  were  my  lips  in  speaking,  I  waited  seven  years 
without  daring  to  give  her  any  hint,  fearing  that  if  she  should  know  it  I 
should  lose  my  opportunity  of  being  often  with  her,  for  this  I  dreaded  more 
than  death.  But  one  day,  being  in  a  meadow  gazing  at  her,  such  a  severe 
palpitation  of  the  heart  attacked  me  that  I  lost  color  and  control  of  ex- 
pression. She  noticed  it,  and  asked  what  was  the  matter  with  me,  and  I 
told  her  that  I  had  an  unbearable  pain  in  the  heart.  And  she,  thinking 
that  my  illness  was  of  another  sort  than  love,  showed  me  that  she  was 
sorry  for  me,  which  made  me  beg  her  to  be  willing  to  lay  her  hand  upon 
my  heart  to  see  how  it  was  beating.  This  she  did,  more  from  charity 
than  from  any  other  sort  of  love,  and  when  I  held  her  gloved  hand  against 
my  heart  it  began  to  beat  and  be  distressed  so  heavily  that  she  felt  that 
I  spoke  truth.  And  then  I  pressed  her  hand  against  my  heart,  saying: 

"'Alas,  Lady,  receive  the  heart  that  is  eager  to  burst  my  breast  and 
leap  into  the  hand  of  her  from  whom  I  hope  for  favor  and  life  and  pity. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH    105 

I  am  forced  now  to  disclose  to  you  the  love  that  I  have  long  concealed, 
for  neither  my  heart  nor  I  are  masters  of  this  powerful  god. ' 

"When  she  heard  the  tenor  of  my  words  she  thought  it  strange. 

"She  desired  to  withdraw  her  hand;  I  held  it  so  firmly  that  the  glove 
remained  in  the  place  of  her  cruel  hand,  and  because  I  have  never  had 
any  greater  favor  from  her  I  have  fastened  this  glove  as  the  best  plaster 
I  can  give  my  heart,  and  I  have  adorned  it  with  all  the  richest  rings  that 
I  had,  though  the  riches  lie  in  the  glove  itself  which  I  would  not  give 
up  for  the  Kingdom  of  England,  for  I  have  no  greater  happiness  in  the 
world  than  to  feel  it  on  my  breast." 

Lord  de  Montmorency,  who  would  have  preferred  a  lady's  hand  to 
her  glove,  praised  him  that  he  was  the  truest  lover  that  ever  he  had  seen, 
and  worthy  of  better  treatment  since  he  set  so  much  store  by  so  little, 
but  that,  taking  into  consideration  his  great  love,  if  he  had  won  more 
than  the  glove,  perhaps  he  would  have  died  of  joy.  With  this  suggestion 
of  Lord  de  Montmorency  the  Englishman  agreed,  not  suspecting  that 
he  was  making  fun  of  him. 

Among  the  prote'ge's  of  Marguerite  MELLIN  DE  SAINT- 
GELAIS  (1487-1558)  is  known  for  verse  ingenious  and  musical, 
and  especially  for  the  sonnet,  a  form  which  his  admirers 
claimed  that  he  had  introduced  into  France.  Austin  Dobson 
has  translated 

THE  SONNET  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN 

When  from  afar  these  mountain  tops  I  view, 
I  do  but  mete  mine  own  distress  thereby: 
High  is  their  head,  and  my  desire  is  high; 
Firm  is  their  foot,  my  faith  is  certain  too. 
E'en  as  the  winds  above  their  summits  blue, 
From  me  too  breaks  betimes  the  wistful  sigh; 
And  as  from  them  the  brooks  and  streamlets  hie, 
So  from  mine  eyes  the  tears  run  down  anew. 

A  thousand  flocks  upon  them  feed  and  stray; 
As  many  loves  within  me  see  the  day, 
And  all  my  heart  for  pasture  ground  divide. 
No  fruit  have  they,  my  lot  as  fruitless  is; 
And  'twixt  us  now  nought  diverse  is  but  this — 
In  them  the  snows,  in  me  the  fires  abide. 


106  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Even  the  pages  about  Marguerite's  court  became  touched 
with  literary  desire.  BONA VENTURE  DESPERTERS  (who  died 
in  1544)  was  one  of  them,  and  he  wrote  not  only  religious 
and  fanciful  poems,  but  amusing  prose  as  well. 

An  example  is 


THE  STORY  OF  BLONDEAU  THE  COBBLER,  WHO  WAS  NEVER 
MELANCHOLY  BUT  TWICE  IN  HIS  LIFE  AND  WHAT  HE 
DID  FOR  IT 

(From  "Half  Hours  with  the  Best  French  Authors") 

"At  Paris  on  the  Seine  three  boats  there  be;"  but  there  was  also  a 
cobbler  named  Blondeau,  who  lodged  near  the  Croix  du  Tiroir;  there  he 
earned  his  living  merrily  by  mending  shoes.  He  loved  good  wine  above 
all  things,  and  willingly  taught  those  who  went  there  to  do  so  too;  for 
if  there  was  any  in  all  that  quarter  it  was  thought  necessary  that  he 
should  taste  it;  and  he  was  very  well  content  to  take  a  little  more  if  it 
proved  good. 

All  day  long  he  sang  and  made  the  neighborhood  lively.  He  was  never 
seen  vexed  in  his  life  but  twice,  once  when  he  had  found  in  an  old  wall 
a  pot  containing  a  great  quantity  of  old  coins,  some  of  silver,  some  of 
alloy,  of  which  he  did  not  know  the  value.  Then  he  began  to  grow 
thoughtful.  He  left  off  singing  and  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  tin 
pot.  He  said  to  himself,  "This  sort  of  money  is  not  used  now;  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  buy  any  bread  or  wine  with  it.  If  I  show  it  to  the  silver- 
smiths they  will  betray  me,  or  they  will  want  to  get  their  share,  and 
will  not  give  me  half  its  value."  Sometimes  he  was  afraid  he  had  not 
hidden  the  pot  securely  enough,  and  that  somebody  would  rob  him  of 
it.  He  would  leave  his  shed  at  all  hours  of  the  day  to  go  and  change  its 
place.  He  was  in  the  greatest  possible  trouble  about  it;  but  in  the  end 
he  came  to  a  better  mind,  saying  to  himself,  "How  now,  I  do  nothing 
but  think  of  this  pot.  Everybody  knows  well,  by  my  manner,  that 
there's  something  singular  in  my  condition.  Bah!  Bad  luck  to  the  pot! 
It  brings  me  misfortune."  The  end  of  it  was  that  he  proceeded  to  take 
it  quietly  and  throw  it  into  the  river,  and  so  drowned  all  his  melancholy 
along  with  the  pot. 

At  another  time  he  was  much  annoyed  by  a  gentleman  who  lived  just 
opposite  his  little  shop — or,  rather,  his  shop  was  opposite  the  gentleman. 
The  said  gentleman  had  a  monkey  who  played  a  thousand  trrcks  on  poor 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH    107 

Blondeau,  for  he  watched  him  from  a  high  window  when  he  was  cutting 
his  leather  and  noticed  how  he  did  it;  and  directly  Blondeau  went  out 
to  dinner  or  anywhere  on  business  down  would  come  the  monkey  and 
go  into  Blondeau's  shop  and  take  his  knife  and  cut  up  his  leather  as  he 
had  seen  Blondeau  do;  and  this  he  was  in  the  habit  of  doing  every  lime 
that  Blondeau  was  out  of  the  way:  so  that,  for  a  time,  the  poor  man 
could  not  leave  his  shop,  even  for  his  meals,  without  putting  away  his 
leather;  and  if  sometimes  he  forgot  to  lock  it  up,  the  monkey  never 
forgot  to  cut  it  to  bits,  a  proceeding  that  annoyed  him  greatly;  and  yet 
he  was  afraid  to  hurt  the  monkey,  for  fear  of  his  master.  When,  how- 
ever, he  grew  thoroughly  tired  of  this  he  considered  how  he  could  pay 
him  out.  After  having  noticed  particularly  the  way  in  which  the  monkey 
imitated  exactly  everything  he  saw  done, — for  if  Blondeau  sharpened 
his  knife,  the  monkey  sharpened  it  too;  if  he  waxed  his  thread,  so,  too, 
did  the  monkey;  if  he  sewed  some  new  soles,  the  monkey  set  about  mov- 
ing his  elbows  as  he  had  seen  him  do, — Blondeau  one  day  sharpened  his 
knife  and  made  it  cut  like  a  razor,  and  then,  when  he  saw  the  monkey 
watching,  he  began  to  put  his  knife  to  his  throat,  and  move  it  backwards 
and  forwards,  as  if  he  wished  to  kill  himself,  and  when  he  had  done  this 
long  enough  to  make  the  monkey  notice  it,  he  left  his  shop  and  went  to 
dinner.  The  monkey  was  not  slow  in  coming  down,  for  he  wished  to  try 
this  new  pastime,  which  he  had  never  seen  before.  He  took  the  knife 
and  put  it  immediately  to  his  throat,  moving  it  backwards  and  forwards. 
But  he  put  it  too  near,  and  not  being  very  careful  as  he  rubbed  it  against 
the  skin  he  cut  his  throat  with  this  well-sharpened  knife,  and  died  of  the 
wound  within  an  hour.  Thus  did  Blondeau  punish  the  monkey  without 
danger  to  himself. 

Giving  himself  to  classical  lore  JACQUES  AMYOT  (1513- 
1593)  who  learned  ancient  languages  while  he  was  a  servant 
in  a  Paris  college,  and  who  later  became  Bishop  of  Auxerre, 
made  translations — of  Plutarch,  of  Heliodorus's  romance, 
"Theagenes  and  Chariclea" — which  not  only  retained  the 
spirit  of  the  original,  but  which  put  the  translator  into  the 
front  rank  of  French  stylists.  He  strikes  the  note  of  variety 
among  the  satellites  of  Marguerite,  chief  among  whom  was 
the  poet  CLEMENT  MAROT  (1497-1544).  Son  of  a  poet  and 
student  of  the  work  of  this  century's  first  eminent  versifier, 
,Le  Maire  de  Beiges,  Marot  soon  attracted  Marguerite's 


108  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

attention  and  became  attached  to  her  person  as  he  was  later 
to  that  of  Francis.  His  Protestant  belief  got  him  into  many 
troubles  and  he  vibrated  between  the  court  and  exile.  His 
muse  seems  to  have  been  unquenched  by  adversity  and 
through  all  changes  of  fortune  he  wrote  poetry  of  abundant 
charm,  and  marked  by  greater  ease  of  form  than  belonged  to 
his  predecessors.  He  was  a  student  as  well  as  a  writer,  and 
in  this  capacity  he  did  excellent  service  by  modernizing  the 
"Romance  of  the  Rose."  His  poems  were  so  popular  as  to 
win  for  him  many  imitators  who  strove  to  achieve  the  "  Ma- 
rotic  style,"  rich  in  epigram  and  marked  by  a  simplicity 
which  was  in  strong  contrast  to  the  stilted  expressions  and 
restricted  forms  of  his  predecessors.  Here  is  an  address 

*  TO  ANNE 

When  thou  art  near  to  me,  it  seems 

As  if  the  sun  along  the  sky, 
Though  he  awhile  withheld  his  beams, 

Burst  forth  in  glowing  majesty; 

But  like  a  storm  that  lowers  on  high, 
Thy  absence  clouds  the  scene  again : — 

Alas!  that  from  so  sweet  a  joy 

Should  spring  regret  so  full  of  pain! 


"THE  PORTRAIT 

This  dear  resemblance  of  thy  lovely  face, 

'Tis  true,  is  painted  with  a  master's  care; 
But  one  far  better  still  my  heart  can  trace, 

For  Love  himself  engraved  the  image  there. 
Thy  gift  can  make  my  soul  blest  visions  share; 

But  brighter  still,  dear  love,  my  joys  would  shine, 
Were  I  within  thy  heart  impressed  as  fair, 

As  true,  as  vividly,  as  thou  in  mine! 

•  From  Longfellow's  "Poetry  of  Europe." 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH    109 
BALLADE  OF  FRERE  LUBIN 

(Translated  by  Andrew  Lang) 

Some  ten  or  twenty  times  a  day, 
To  bustle  to  the  town  with  speed, 
To  dabble  in  what  dirt  he  may, — 
Le  Frere  Lubin's  the  man  you  need! 
But  any  sober  life  to  lead 
Upon  an  exemplary  plan, 
Requires  a  Christian  indeed, — 
Le  Frere  Lubin  is  not  the  man! 

Another's  "pile"  on  his  to  lay, 
With  all  the  craft  of  guile  and  greed, 
To  leave  you  bare  of  pence  or  pay, — 
Le  Frere  Lubin's  the  man  you  need! 
But  watch  him  with  the  closest  heed, 
And  dun  him  with  what  force  you  can, — 
He'll  not  refund,  howe'er  you  plead, — 
Le  Frere  Lubin  is  not  the  man! 

An  honest  girl  to  lead  astray, 

With  subtle  saw  and  promised  meed, 

Requires  no  cunning  crone  and  grey, — 

Le  Frere  Lubin's  the  man  you  need! 

He  preaches  an  ascetic  creed, 

But, — try  him  with  the  water  can — 

A  dog  will  drink,  whate'er  his  breed, — 

Le  Frere  Lubin  is  not  the  man! 

Envoy 

In  good  to  fail,  in  ill  succeed, 
Le  Frere  Lubin's  the  man  you  need! 
In  honest  works  to  lead  the  van, 
Le  Frere  Lubin  is  not  the  man! 

TO  DIANE  DE  POITIERS 

(From  Longfellow's  "Poetry  of  Europe") 

Farewell!  since  vain  is  all  my  care, 

Far,  in  some  desert  rude, 
I'll  hide  my  weakness,  my  despair; 

And,  midst  my  solitude, 


HO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

I'll  pray,  that,  should  another  move  thee, 
He  may  as  fondly,  truly  love  thee. 

Adieu,  bright  eyes,  that  were  my  heaven! 

Adieu,  soft  cheek,  where  summer  blooms! 
Adieu,  fair  form,  earth's  pattern  given, 

Which  Love  inhabits  and  illumes! 
Your  rays  have  fallen  but  coldly  on  me: 
One  far  less  fond,  perchance,  has  won  ye! 

PIERRE  RONSARD  (1524-1585)  followed  Marot  in  time  but 
not  in  method,  for  he  struck  out  a  new  path.  True,  he  wrote 
on  the  themes  that  naturally  suggested  themselves  to  a  court 
poet,  but  he  had  travelled  much  and  had  had  experience  of 
other  lands  and  other  courts,  and  in  this  way  he  picked  up 
a  variety  of  information  which  he  turned  to  patriotic  account 
for  the  improvement  of  his  country's  letters.  Language  and 
literatures  alike  were  weak,  he  declared,  through  leaning  too 
long  on  Greek  and  Latin,  and  he  declared  for  originality  in 
idea  and  in  execution.  He  strove  to  enrich  the  language  by 
using  existing  words  in  a  new  way — converting  a  noun  into 
a  verb,  and  employing  technical  terms  figuratively — and  also 
by  giving  a  French  form  to  words  borrowed  from  any  other 
language  that  he  happened  to  know.  His  enthusiasm  stirred 
a  group  of  friends  to  like  ardor,  and  the  seven  young  men 
who  formed  "the  Pleiade"  worked  hard  in  the  service  of 
France  and  the  Muses.  Not  only  were  their  efforts  successful 
at  the  time,  but  when  the  classical  shackles  of  the  seventeenth 
and  eighteenth  century  were  thrown  off  by  the  romantic 
movement  of  the  mid-nineteenth  it  was  the  influence  of  the 
Pleiade  that  gave  the  incentive. 

The  members  of  the  Pleiade  were  Joachim  du  Bellay, 
Antoine  de  Bai'f,  Pontus  de  Thyard,  Remi  Belleau,  Jean 
Dorat,  Etienne  Jodelle,  and  Ronsard,  who  surpassed  them 
all  in  talent,  in  perseverance,  and  above  all  in  popularity. 
Ladies  loved  him,  princes  flattered,  yet  he  withdrew  into  a 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH    ill 

life  of  semi-seclusion  and  devoted  himself  to  his  self-imposed 
task. 

Great  people — Queen  Elizabeth  of  England  among  them — 
made  Ronsard  valuable  gifts.  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  sent 
him  a  silver  Parnassus,  probably  as  a  mark  of  appreciation 
for  the  following  lines. 

TO  MARY  STUART 

(From  Longfellow's  "Poetry  of  Europe") 

All  beauty,  granted  a^  a  boon  to  earth, 
That  is,  has  been,  or  ever  can  have  birth, 
Compared  to  hers,  is  void,  and  nature's  care 
Ne'er  formed  a  creature  so  divinely  fair. 

In  spring  amidst  the  lilies  she  was  born, 
And  purer  tints  her  peerless  face  adorn; 
And  though  Adonis'  blood  the  rose  may  paint, 
Beside  her  bloom  the  rose's  hues  are  faint: 

With  all  his  richest  store  Love  decked  her  eyes: 
The  Graces  each,  those  daughters  of  the  skies, 
Strove  which  should  make  her  to  the  world  most  dear, 
And,  to  attend  her,  left  their  native  sphere. 

The  day  that  was  to  bear  her  far  away, — 

Why  was  I  mortal  to  behold  that  day? 

O,  had  I  senseless  grown,  nor  heard,  nor  seen! 

Or  that  my  eyes  a  ceaseless  fount  had  been, 

That  I  might  weep  as  weep  amid  their  bowers, 

The  nymphs,  when  winter  winds  have  cropped  their  flowers, 

Or  when  rude  torrents  the  clear  streams  deform, 

Or  when  the  trees  are  riven  by  the  storm! 

Or  rather,  would  that  I  some  bird  had  been, 

Still  to  be  near  her  in  each  changing  scene, 

Still  on  the  highest  mast  to  watch  all  day, 

And  like  a  star  to  mark  her  vessel's  way: 

The  dangerous  billows  past,  on  shore,  on  sea, 

Near  that  dear  face  it  still  were  mine  to  be. 


112  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

O  France,  where  are  thy  ancient  champions  gone, — 
Roland,  Rinaldo? — is  there  living  none 
Her  steps  to  follow  and  her  safety  guard, 
And  deem  her  lovely  looks  their  best  reward, — 
Which  might  subdue — pride  of  mighty  Jove 
To  leave  his  heaven,  and  languish  for  her  love? 
No  fault  is  hers,  but  in  her  royal  state, — 
For  simple  Love  dreads  to  approach  the  great; 
He  flies  from  regal  pomp,  that  treacherous  snare, 
Where  truth  unmarked  may  wither  in  despair. 

Wherever  destiny  her  path  may  lead, 
Fresh-springing  flowers  will  bloom  beneath  her  tread, 
All  nature  will  rejoice,  the  waves  be  bright, 
The  tempest  check  its  fury  at  her  sight, 
The  sea  be  calm;  her  beauty  to  behold, 
The  sun  shall  crown  her  with  his  rays  of  gold, — 
Unless  he  fears,  should  he  approach  her  throne, 
Her  majesty  should  quite  eclipse  his  own. 

A  series  of  charming  poems  addressed  "To  Helen"  has 
long  been  a  mark  for  delighted  translators.  Of  them  all  none 
is  more  widely  quoted  than  this. 

TO  HELEN  IN  HER  OLD  AGE 

(Paraphrased  by  William  Makepeace  Thackeray) 

Some  winter  night,  shut  snugly  in 

Beside  the  fagot  in  the  hall, 
I  think  I  see  you  sit  and  spin, 

Surrounded  by  your  maidens  all. 
Old  tales  are  told,  old  songs  are  sung, 

Old  days  come  back  to  memory; 

You  say,  "When  I  was  fair  and  young, 

A  poet  sang  of  me!" 

There's  not  a  maiden  in  your  hall, 

Though  tired  and  sleepy  ever  so, 
But  wakes,  as  you  my  name  recall, 

And  longs  the  history  to  know, 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH    113 

And,  as  the  piteous  tale  is  said, 

Of  lady  cold  and  lover  true, 
Each,  musing,  carries  it  to  bed, 

And  sighs  and  envies  you. 

"Our  lady's  old  and  feeble  now," 

They'll  say;  "she  once  was  fresh  and  fair, 
And  yet  she  spurn'd  her  lover's  vow, 

And  heartless  left  him  to  despair! 
The  lover  lies  in  silent  earth, 

No  kindly  mate  the  lady  cheers; 
She  sits  beside  a  lonely  hearth, 

With  threescore  and  ten  years. " 

Ah!  dreary  thoughts  and  dreams  are  those, 

But  wherefore  yield  me  to  despair, 
While  yet  the  poet's  bosom  glows, 

While  yet  the  dame  is  peerless  fair! 
Sweet  lady  mine!  while  yet  'tis  time 

Requite  my  passion  and  my  truth, 
And  gather  in  their  blushing  prime 

The  roses  of  your  youth! 

Of  the  other  members  of  the  Pleiade,  JOACHIM  DE  BELLAY'S 
(1522-1560)  graceful  "  Hymn  "  was  quoted  in  Chapter  II.  A 
tribute  to  Rabelais  will  represent  at  his  best  DE  BA!F  (1532- 
1589)  who  was  usually  rather  more  constrained  in  expression. 

EPITAPH  ON  RABELAIS 

(From  Longfellow's  "Poetry  of  Europe") 

Pluto,  bid  Rabelais  welcome  to  thy  shore,  • 
That  thou,  who  art  the  King  of  woe  and  pain, 

Whose  subjects  never  learned  to  laugh  before, 
Ma}T  boast  a  laughter  in  thy  grim  domain. 

To  JODELLE  (1532-1573)  belongs  the  honor  of  having 
written  the  first  technically  regular  tragedy  and  comedy  on 
the  French  stage.  His  light  verse  has  the  charm  that  belongs 
to  all  the  group. 


114  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

TO  MME.  DE  PRIMADIS 

(From  Longfellow's  "  Poetry  of  Europe  ") 

I  saw  thee  weave  a  web  with  care, 
Where,  at  thy  touch,  fresh  roses  grew, 

And  marvelled  they  were  formed  so  fair, 
And  that  thy  heart  such  nature  knew: 

Alas!  how  idle  my  surprise! 
Since  naught  so  plain  can  be: 

Thy  cheek  their  richest  hue  supplies, 

And  in  thy  breath  their  perfume  lies, — 
Their  grace,  their  beauty,  all  are  drawn  for  thee! 

As  delicate  and  fresh  as  his  theme  is  BELLEAU'S  (1528- 
1577) 

APRIL 

(Translated  by  Andrew  Lang) 

April,  pride  of  woodland  ways, 

Of  glad  days, 

April,  bringing  hope  of  prime, 
To  the  young  flowers  that  beneath 

Their  bud  sheath 
Are  guarded  in  their  tender  time. 

April,  pride  of  fields  that  be 

Green  and  free, 
That  in  fashion  glad  and  gay, 
Stud  with  flowers  red  and  blue, 

Every  hue, 
Their  jewelled  spring  array. 

April,  pride  of  murmuring 

Winds  of  spring, 
That  beneath  the  winnowed  air, 
Trap  with  subtle  nets  and  sweet 

Flora's  feet, 
Flora's  feet,  the  fleet  and  fair. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH    115 

April,  by  thy  hand  caressed, 

From  her  breast 
Nature  scatters  every  where 
Handfuls  of  all  sweet  perfumes, 

Buds  and  blooms, 
Making  faint  the  earth  and  air. 

April,  joy  of  the  green  hours, 

Clothes  with  flowers 
Over  all  her  locks  of  gold 
My-6weet  Lady,  and  her  breast 

With  the  blest 
Buds  of  summer  manifold. 

April,  with  thy  gracious  wiles 

Like  the  smiles, 

Smiles  of  Venus;  and  thy  breath 
Like  her  breath,  the  gods'  delight, 

(From  their  height 
They  take  the  happy  air  beneath;) 

It  is  thou  that,  of  thy  grace, 

From  their  place 
In  the  far-off  isles  dost  bring 
Swallows  over  earth  and  sea, 

Glad  to  be 
Messengers  of  thee,  and  Spring. 

Daffodil  and  eglantine, 

And  woodbine, 
Lily,  violet,  and  rose 
Plentiful  in  April  fair, 

To  the  air, 
Their  pretty  petals  do  unclose. 

Nightingales  ye  now  may  hear, 

Piercing  clear, 

Singing  in  the  deepest  shade; 
Many  and  many  a  babbled  note 

Chime  and  float, 
Woodland  music  through  the  glade. 


Il6  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

April,  all  to  welcome  thee, 

Spring  sets  free 

Ancient  flames,  and  with  low  breath 
Wakes  the  ashes  grey  and  old 

That  the  cold 
Chilled  within  our  hearts  to  death. 

Thou  beholdest  in  the  warm 

Hours,  the  swarm 
Of  the  thievish  bees,  that  flies 
Evermore  from  bloom  to  bloom 

For  perfume, 
Hid  away  in  tiny  thighs. 

Her  cool  shadows  May  can  boast, 

Fruits  almost 

Ripe,  and  gifts  of  fertile  dew, 
Manna-sweet  and  honey-sweet, 

That  complete 
Her  flower  garland  fresh  and  new. 

Nay,  but  I  will  give  my  prarse 

To  these  days, 

Named  with  the  glad  name  of  Her  * 
That  from  out  the  foam  of  the  sea 

Came  to  be 
Sudden  light  on  earth  and  air. 

These  verse  makers  may  be  said  to  belong  chiefly  to  the 
first  half  of  the  century.  The  later  years  were  too  filled  with 
the  distress  of  the  religious  contests  to  give  much  thought  to 
the  lighter  vein.  In  prose,  however,  there  was  some  strong 
work  accomplished.  MICHEL  L'HOPITAL  (1505-1573), 
Catharine  de  Medici's  adviser,  was  an  orator,  and  also  wrote 
intelligently  and  with  great  good  sense  on  politics  and  govern- 
ment and  the  religious  disturbances  of  the  times.  PALISSY, 
the  potter  (1510-1589),  famous  for  his  enamels,  was  an 
archaeologist,  a  geologist,  an  engineer,  a  chemist,  and  a 

*  Aprodite — Avril. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH    117 

nature  student,  and  in  this  catholic  variety  of  tastes  he  found 
material  for  many  books  and  treatises  on  scientific  subjects. 
Like  her  great-aunt,  Francis  I's  sister,  in  love  of  writing 
as  well  as  in  name,  MARGUERITE  OF  NAVARRE  (1553-1615), 
daughter  of  Catharine  de  Medici  and  sister  of  three  Kings, 
Francis  II,  Charles  IX,  and  Henry  III,  had  a  ready  pen, 
though  she  was  not  especially  graceful.  Her  life  was  exciting 
enough  to  furnish  her  with  ample  material  for  chronicles. 
Her  brother,  Charles  IX,  insisted  on  her  marrying  Henry  of 
Navarre  (later  Henry  IV)  as  a  means  of  uniting  the  clashing 
parties.  Marguerite  declined  but  her  objection  counted  for 
nothing.  The  marriage  was  solemnized  in  the  square  before 
Notre  Dame  and  when  the  princess  refused  to  give  her  assent 
her  brother  roughly  seized  her  head  and  bobbed  it  toward  the 
Archbishop  who  went  on  with  the  ceremony  as  if  she  had 
acted  of  her  own  accord.  Six  days  after  the  marriage  occurred 
the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew,  and  Marguerite  tells  in 
her  "Memoirs"  of  her  experiences  in  connection  with  it. 

King  Charles,  who  was  very  prudent  and  who  had  always  been  very 
obedient  to  the  queen,  my  mother,  and  a  very  Catholic  prince,  seeing 
also  whither  it  was  all  tending,  took  a  sudden  resolution  to  unite  with 
the  queen,  his  mother,  and  to  conform  to  her  will,  and  to  steer  clear 
of  the  Huguenots  by  the  aid  of  the  Catholics,  not  without  feeling,  never- 
theless, extreme  regret  at  being  unable  to  save  Teligny,  La  Noue,  and 
M.  de  la  Rochefoucault.  And  then,  going  to  find  the  queen  his  mother 
he  caused  inquiry  to  be  made  for  M.  de  Guise  and  all  the  other  Catholic 
princes  and  captains,  among  whom  the  decision  was  made  to  accomplish 
the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  that  very  night.  And  swiftly  setting 
their  hands  to  the  task  they  had  all  the  chains  stretched  across  the  streets, 
and  when  the  tocsin  sounded  every  one  ran  from  his  quarter  according 
to  orders,  not  only  to  seek  the  AdmiraFbut  all  the  Huguenots.  M.  de 
Guise  went  to  the  Admiral's  house  where  Besme,  a  German  gentleman, 
had  gone  upstairs  to  his  room,  and  after  killing  him  with  a  dagger- thrust, 
had  thrown  him  out  of  the  window  to  M.  de  Guise. 

They  told  us  nothing  about  all  this.  I  saw  everybody  in  action,  the 
Huguenots  desperate  over  this  attack;  M.  de  Guise  fearful  lest  they  take 
vengeance  on  him,  whispering  to  everybody.  The  Huguenots  suspected 


Il8  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

me  because  I  was  a  Catholic,  and  the  Catholics  because  I  had  married 
the  King  of  Navarre,  who  was  a  Huguenot.  On  this  account  no  one 
said  anything  to  me  about  it  until  evening,  when,  being  in  the  bedroom 
of  the  queen,  my  mother,  seated  on  a  chest  beside  my  sister  of  Lorraine 
whom  I  saw  to  be  very  sad,  as  the  queen  my  mother  was  speaking  to 
some  of  them  she  noticed  me  and  told  me  to  go  to  bed.  As  I  was  courte- 
sying  to  her  my  sister,  weeping  bitterly,  seized  my  arm  and  stopped  me, 
saying;  "O  sister,  don't  go."  I  was  greatly  frightened.  The  queen  my 
mother  saw  it  and  called  my  sister  and  scolded  her  severely,  forbidding 
her  to  say  anything  to  me.  My  sister  told  her  that  there  was  no  reason 
to  sacrifice  me  like  that,  and  that  if  they  discovered  anything  they  un- 
doubtedly would  avenge  themselves  on  me.  The  queen  my  mother 
replied  that  if  God  so  willed  I  should  come  to  no  harm,  but,  whatever 
happened,  I  must  go,  for  fear  of  their  suspecting  something  which  would 
impede  the  outcome. 

I  saw  quite  well  that  they  were  disputing  though  I  did  not  hear  their 
words.  Again  she  roughly  ordered  me  to  go  to  bed.  My  sister  burst 
into  tears  as  she  bade  me  good  night,  daring  to  say  nothing  more  to  me, 
and  I  went  away  thoroughly  stunned  and  overcome,  without  under- 
standing at  all  what  I  had  to  fear.  Suddenly  when  I  was  in  my  dressing 
room  I  began  to  pray  God  to  take  me  under  his  protection  and  preserve 
me,  without  knowing  from  what  or  whom.  Upon  that  the  King  my  hus- 
band who  had  retired,  summoned  me  to  his  room  and  I  found  his  bed 
surrounded  by  thirty  or  forty  Huguenots  whom  I  did  not  then  know,  for 
I  had  only  been  married  a  few  days.  They  talked  all  night  about  the 
accident  that  had  befallen  the  Admiral,  resolving  that  as  soon  as  morn- 
ing came  they  would  ask  the  King  for  revenge  on  M.  de  Guise  and  that 
if  he  would  not  give  it  to  them  they  would  take  it  for  themselves.  I 
still  had  my  sister's  tears  upon  my  mind  and  I  could  not  sleep  because 
of  the  fear  she  had  inspired  in  me,  though  I  knew  not  of  what.  Thus 
the  night  passed  without  my  closing  my  eyes.  At  daybreak  the  King 
my  husband,  suddenly  making  up  his  mind  to  ask  justice  from  King 
Charles,  said  that  he  was  going  to  play  tennis  until  the  King  should 
awake.  He  left  my  room  and  all  the  gentlemen  also.  I,  seeing  that  it 
was  daylight,  thinking  that  the  danger  of  which  my  sister  had  spoken 
to  me  was  passed  by,  overcome  with  sleep,  told  my  nurse  to  shut  the 
door  that  I  might  sleep  comfortably. 

An  hour  after  as  I  was  still  sleeping  there  came  a  man  who  beat  on 
the  door  with  hands  and  feet  crying,  "Navarre,  Navarre!"  My  nurse, 
thinking  that  it  was  the  King  my  husband  ran  at  once  to  the  door  and 
opened  it.  It  was  a  gentleman  named  L£ran  who  had  received  a  sword 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH    119 

thrust  in  the  elbow  and  a  blow  on  the  arm  from  a  halberd,  and  who  was 
still  pursued  by  four  archers  who  all  rushed  after  him  into  my  room. 
He,  wishing  to  save  himself,  flung  himself  on  my  bed.  When  I  felt  the 
man  grasp  me  I  flung  myself  out  of  bed,  and  he  rolled  after  me,  still 
clinging  to  me.  I  did  not  recognize  the  man,  and  I  did  not  know  whether 
he  was  there  to  attack  me,  or  whether  the  archers  were  after  him  or  me. 
We  both  screamed  and  we  were  equally  frightened.  At  last  by  God's 
will  M.  de  Nancay,  captain  of  the  guards,  came.  When  he  saw  in  what 
a  state  I  was,  though  he  was  sorry  he  could  not  help  laughing.  He  rep- 
rimanded the  guards  severely  for  their  indiscretion,  sent  them  away 
and  he  granted  to  my  request  the  life  of  the  man  who  was  still  holding 
on  to  me.  I  made  him  lie  down  and  have  his  wounds  dressed  in  my  dress- 
ing room  until  he  was  quite  recovered.  I  had  to  change  my  clothes  for 
the  wounded  man  had  covered  me  with  blood.  M.  de  Nancay  told 
me  what  had  happened  and  assured  me  that  the  King  my  husband  was  in 
the  King's  room  and  that  there  would  be  no  more  disturbance.  I  threw 
a  mantle  over  me  and  he  escorted  me  to  my  sister,  Madame  de  Lorraine's, 
room,  where  I  arrived  more  dead  than  alive.  Just  as  I  entered  the  ante- 
chamber, where  the  doors  were  all  open,  a  gentleman  named  Bourse, 
escaping  from  the  pursuit  of  the  archers  was  pierced  by  a  halberd  thrust 
only  three  paces  away.  I  fell  in  the  opposite  direction  into  M.  de  Nan- 
cay's  arms  thinking  that  the  thrust  had  stabbed  us  both.  When  I  had 
recovered  somewhat  I  went  into  the  small  room  where  my  sister  was 
sleeping.  While  I  was  there  M.  de  Mixossans,  the  King  my  husband's 
first  gentleman-in-waiting,  and  Armagnac,  his  first  valet-de-chambre, 
sought  me  out  to  beg  me  to  save  their  lives.  I  knelt  before  the  king  and 
queen  my  mother  to  beg  the  favor  from  them  and  at  last  they  granted  it 
to  me. 

To  the  "SATIRE  M£NIPP£E,"  a  collection  of  clever  papers 
written  by  Catholics,  yet  satirizing  the  work  of  the  Holy 
League  against  Marguerite's  husband,  Henry  of  Navarre, 
was  due  in  part  the  Catholic  sympathy  which  supported  him 
as  Henry  IV.  The  pamphlet  was  written  by  Gillot,  a  canon 
of  the  Sainte  Chapelle  in  Paris,  in  collaboration  with  a  half 
dozen  of  his  friends.  It  is  in  the  form  of  a  burlesque  report  of 
a  meeting  of  the  States  General,  and  gives  descriptions  and 
speeches  in  a  vein  of  keenest  satire.  This  selection  shows 
something  of  its  tone. 


120  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

PARIS  IN  THE  TIME  OF  THE  LEAGUE 

O  Paris  who  are  no  longer  Paris  but  a  den  of  ferocious  beasts,  a  citadel 
of  Spaniards,  Walloons  and  Neapolitans,  an  asylum  and  safe  retreat  for 
robbers,  murderers  and  assassins,  will  you  never  be  cognizant  of  your 
dignity  and  remember  who  you  have  been  and  what  you  are;  will  you 
never  heal  yourself  of  this  frenzy  which  has  engendered  for  you  in  place 
of  lawful  and  gracious  King,  fifty  saucy  kinglets  and  fifty  tyrants?  You 
are  in  chains,  under  a  Spanish  Inquisition,  a  thousand  times  more  in- 
tolerable and  harder  to  endure  by  spirits  born  free  and  unconstrained, 
as  the  French  are,  than  the  crudest  deaths  which  the  Spaniards  could 
devise.  You  did  not  tolerate  a  slight  increase  of  taxes  and  of  offices  and 
a  few  new  edicts  which  did  not  concern  you  at  all,  yet  you  endure  that 
they  pillage  houses,  that  they  ransom  you  with  blood,  that  they  imprison 
your  senators,  that  they  drive  out  and  banish  your  good  citizens  and 
counsellors;  that  they  hang  and  massacre  your  principal  magistrates; 
you  see  it  and  endure  it;  you  not  only  endure  it  but  you  approve  it  and 
praise  it,  and  you  would  not  dare  or  know  how  to  do  otherwise.  You 
have  given  little  support  to  your  King,  good-tempered,  easy,  friendly, 
who  behaved  like  a  fellow-citizen  of  your  town  which  he  had  enriched 
and  embellished  with  handsome  buildings,  fortified  with  strong  and 
haughty  ramparts,  honored  with  privileges  and  favorable  exemptions. 
What  say  I?  Given  little  support?  Far  worse;  you  have  driven  him 
from  his  city,  his  house,  his  very  bed!  Driven  him?  You  have  pursued 
him.  Pursued  him?  You  assassinated  him,  canonized  the  assassin  and 
made  joyful  over  his  death.  And  now  you  see  how  much  this  death 
profited  you. 

Even  in  the  midst  of  his  strenuous  life,  HENRY  (who 
reigned  1589-1598)  found  time  to  give  himself  to  the  amen- 
ities, and  that  he  could  turn  a  graceful  verse  himself  is  shown 
in  his  poem 

CHARMING  GABRIELLE 

(Translated  by  Louisa  Stuart  Costello) 

My  charming  Gabrielle! 

My  heart  is  pierced  with  woe, 
When  glory  sounds  her  knell, 

And  forth  to  war  I  go; 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH    121 

Parting,  perchance  our  last! 

Day,  marked  unblest  to  prove! 
O,  that  my  life  were  past, 

Or  else  my  hapless  love! 

Bright  star,  whose  light  I  lose, — 

O,  fatal  memory! 
My  grief  each  thought  renews! — 
We  meet  again  or  die! 

Parting,  perchance  our  last! 

Day,  marked  unblest  to  prove! 
O,  that  my  life  were  past, 
Or  else  my  hapless  love! 

O,  share  and  bless  the  crown 

By  valor  given  to  me ! 
War  made  the  prize  my  own, 
My  love  awards  it  thee! 

Parting,  perchance  our  last! 

Day,  marked  unblest  to  prove! 
O,  that  my  life  were  past, 
Or  else  my  hapless  love! 

Let  all  my  trumpets  swell, 

And  every  echo  round 
The  words  of  my  farewell, 
Repeat  with  mournful  sound! 

Parting,  perchance  our  last! 

Day,  marked  unblest  to  prove 
O,  that  my  life  were  past, 
Or  else  my  hapless  love! 

MATHURIN  REGNIER  (1573-1613)  a  nephew  of  Desportes, 
a  poet  of  note  in  his  day,  brought  to  the  close  of  the  century 
a  love  of  the  classic  spirit  combined  with  a  freshness  of  ex- 
pression, a  keenness  of  observation  united  with  a  delicate  wit 
that  come  near  to  making  him  one  of  the  foremost  of  French 
poets.  His  happiest  form  was  the  satire.  He  wrote  his  own 

EPITAPH 

I've  lived  my  life  without  a  care 
In  happy  peace  and  comfort  rare, 


122  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

With  nature's  kindness  fraught; 
Surprise  is  mine  and  quite  unfeigned 
Why  death  to  think  of  me  has  deigned 
Who  ne'er  of  her  have  thought. 

One  of  Regnier's  keenest  satires  discussed  FRANCOIS  DE 
MALHERBE  (1555-1628)  whom  he  describes  in  far  from  com- 
plimentary terms. 

But  who  is  this  that  shuffles  in  with  such  a  sour  face? 

A  Chinese  god  with  looks  like  these  would  feel  it  a  disgrace! 

His  heavy  conversation,  too,  so  lacking  is  in  wit 

A  saint  in  Heaven,  hearing,  would  his  sides  with  laughter  split. 

For  Malherbe  Regnier  felt  an  animosity  based  not  only  on 
personal  reasons — Malherbe  and  Desportes  had  quarreled — 
but  on  professional  grounds.  Malherbe  professed  Ronsard's 
dignity  of  tone  and  in  addition  a  purity  of  diction  which 
turned  from  the  earlier  poet's  invented  words  to  those  of 
more  orthodox  lineage.  His  belief  in  the  value  of  exquisite 
speech  made  him  lay  down  laws  of  versification  and  of  ex- 
pression which  were  looked  upon  with  respect  by  his  con- 
temporaries and  which  practically  laid  the  foundation  for  the 
exactnesses  of  the  classical  school  in  the  next  century.  His 
final  impress  is  on  language  rather  than  on  literature.  His 
best  poems  are  thought  to  be  some  verses  of  "Consolation" 
addressed  to  Monsieur  Perier  on  the  death  of  his  daughter, 
Rose,  and  some  lines  of  congratulation  dedicated  to  Marie  de 
Medici.  Here  is  a  panegyric  on 

PEACE 

(Translated  by  J.  Ravcnel  Smith) 
In  Peace  it  is  that  smoothly  flows 
Life's  stream  of  leisure; 
As  in  the  springtime  blooms  the  rose 
In  Peace  blooms  pleasure. 
She  fills  the  teeming  mead  with  corn  and  grass, 
And  sets  to  merry  dance  both  lad  and  lass. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  BEGINNINGS— THE  SIXTEENTH    123 

Strength  and  respect  to  the  land's  laws  she  brings, 
The  sinew  of  their  power  in  field  and  town; 
With  sure  and  steadfast  hand  the  royal  crown 
She  places  firmly  on  the  heads  of  Kings. 

Of  Malherbe's  contemporaries,  FRANCOIS  DE  MAYNARD 
(1582-1646),  like  Regnier,  could  not  forbear  aiming  satirical 
shafts  at  the  professed  dean  of  poetry.  Addressing  Malherbe 
he  says: 

The  poems  that  you  indite 

Are  all  obscure  and  dark; 

Your  speech  is  like  a  night 

Bereft  of  Nature's  spark. 

My  friend,  drive  far  indeed 

Such  sombre  illustrations; 

Your  writings  all  have  need 

Of  liberal  explanations. 

If  your  wit  wants  to  hide 

Its  lovely  thoughts  from  light, 

Why  not  in  silence  bide? 

Pray  tell  me — am  I  right? 

A  great  admirer  of  Malherbe  was  the  MARQUIS  DE  RACAN 
(1589-1670),  who  had  been  a  page  at  court  and  then  an 
officer,  and  who  remained  bluff  and  simple  in  manner  and 
inelegant  in  appearance,  but  endowed  with  a  love  of  nature 
that  expressed  itself  in  exquisite  diction.  Here  is  an  account 
ostensibly  of  his  own  career  which  deftly  flatters  Louis  XIII's 
military  prowess. 

I've  followed  him  through  mortal  fight; 

Seen  rebels  crushed  with  heavy  hand; 

Seen  forts  destroyed  throughout  the  land 

Beneath  his  arm's  victorious  might. 

I've  seen  him  force  the  Alpine  pass 

Where  summits  send  through  clouds  their  mass, 

Where  threatened  are  imperial  peaks 

Before  his  fearful  lightning  stroke, 

Whose  sounding  thunder  hoarsely  speaks 

The  knell  that  o'er  La  Rochelle  broke. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH 

WHEN  Henry  IV's  conversion  (1593)  put  that  canny  mon- 
arch in  a  position  to  gather  up  the  ragged  ends  of  France's 
social  life  he  found  the  cleavage  that  had  formerly  existed 
along  the  horizontal  lines  of  class  now  separating  members  of 
the  same  class.  Nobles,  whether  Catholic  or  Protestant, 
were  not  only  impoverished  in  estate  from  the  civil  war's 
drain  on  their  resources,  they  were  also  bankrupt  of  con- 
fidence in  their  fellows  who  had  played  the  roles  of  neighbor 
or  foe  with  equal  facility.  Burghers  were  no  longer  united 
by  the  fairness  of  the  towns  they  all  loved.  Peasants, 
shuffled  about  like  pawns  by  their  superiors,  were  too  much 
occupied  in  wringing  a  support  from  a  reluctant  soil  to  have 
any  corporate  feeling. 

All  three  classes  found  themselves  in  that  disordered  state 
of  which  a  strong  man  may  take  advantage  to  his  own  profit. 
Henry  proved  himself  that  man  and  his  profit  lay  in  his  mak- 
ing himself  indispensable  to  all,  and  thereby  adding  to  the 
power  which  the  kings  had  long  been  centering  in  their  royal 
persons.  His  attitude  was  not  wholly  selfish.  The  improve- 
ments which  he  instituted  with  the  help  of  his  minister,  the 
Duke  of  Sully,  added  to  the  glory  of  France,  but  they  also 
made  life  during  the  last  twenty  years  of  his  reign  not  only 
endurable  but  desirable.  Even  the  peasant,  too  insignificant 
to  be  despised  in  those  days  when  he  was  looked  on  as  a 
cumberer  of  the  earth  and  not  as  a  producer,  attained  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  comfort.  Henry  was  hail-fellow-well-met  with 
all  folk  of  low  degree  and  he  is  said  to  have  had  the  praise- 

124 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH       125 

worthy  ambition  so  to  improve  the  condition  of  the  poor 
that  every  cottager  should  have  a  boiled  fowl  for  his  Sunday 
dinner. 

Louis,  who  reigned  from  1610  to  1643,  was  DUt  a  child 
when  his  father  died,  and  the  policy  of  the  queen-regent, 
Marie  de  Medici,  within  four  years  of  her  accession  turned 
France  into  a  hunting-ground  for  foreign  grafters  and  for 
Frenchmen  greedy  of  land  and  power.  Nobles  were  bought 
off  when  they  objected  to  the  outrageous  expenditures  of  the 
government,  to  the  heavy  taxation  that  provided  for  them, 
and  to  the  restrictions  in  trade  that  made  such  provision 
increasingly  burdensome.  The  States  General  was  convened 
but  snubbed;  Marie's  Italian  favorite  quarrelled  and  plun- 
dered; Louis's  French  favorite  assassinated;  the  Huguenot 
party  was  in  revolt;  the  peasant  was  once  more  in  that  state 
which  those  higher  up  seemed  to  consider  his  natural  condi- 
tion, but  which  he  was  beginning  to  regard  with  an  under- 
standing lighted  by  the  ever-increasing  fire  of  a  dull-burning 
sense  of  injustice. 

The  country  was  drifting  again  into  the  chaos  from  which 
Henry  IV  had  rescued  it,  when  Richelieu,  after  some  personal 
vicissitudes,  grasped  the  tiller  with  a  firm  hand,  guided  by  an 
intelligent  and  far-seeing  brain.  His  internal  policy  built  up 
the  royal  authority  by  giving  a  stable  support  to  all  classes, 
all  occupations,  all  commerce,  all  art  which  was  content  to 
lean  upon  the  royal  power;  and  by  subduing  ruthlessly  all 
such  as  betrayed  any  flickerings  of  independence.  His  justice 
was  absolutely  impartial;  he  granted  the  peasant  admission 
to  tribunals  as  readily  as  he  destroyed  noblemen's  castles; 
he  beheaded  the  count  as  promptly  as  the  bourgeois;  he 
conquered  the  Huguenots  and  then  confirmed  the  rights  given 
them  by  the  Edict  of  Nantes.  The  poor  gained  in  self- 
respect,  but  they,  like  the  rest,  achieved  no  smallest  political 
advance. 


126  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

In  foreign  affairs  Richelieu's  chief  move  was  against  Spain, 
France's  long  time  rival,  and  he  made  it  directly  by  meeting 
Spain  in  Italy  and  by  reaching  out  toward  the  Spanish 
Netherlands,  and  indirectly  by  opposing  any  stand  taken  by 
the  Emperor  of  Germany  whose  relations  with  Spain  were 
both  family  and  political.  This  effort  put  Richelieu  in  the 
anomalous  position  of  righting  the  Protestants  in  his  own 
country  and  supporting  them  in  Germany,  but  he  acted  as 
whole-heartedly  abroad  as  at  home. 

Louis  XIII 's  accession  was  almost  contemporaneous  with 
that  of  the  Stuarts  in  England.  The  son  of  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots,  James  I  of  England  and  VI  of  Scotland,  whom  Henry 
of  Navarre  stigmatized  as  the  "wisest  fool  in  Christendom," 
came  to  the  throne  in  1603  and  was  succeeded  in  1625  by  his 
son  Charles  I  who  married  Henrietta  Maria  of  France, 
daughter  of  the  caustic  Henry  IV  and  sister  of  Louis  XIII. 
Both  James  and  Charles  believed  themselves  divinely  ap- 
pointed for  kingly  rule,  but  the  English  people  had  been  in 
training  for  democracy  for  several  centuries  and  Charles  lost 
his  head  (in  1649)  nearly  a  century  and  a  half  before  the 
French  popular  movement  gathered  impetus  for  the  execution 
of  Louis  XVI. 

Louis  XIII's  death  followed  but  a  half  year  after  Riche- 
lieu's, and  then  France  came  again  into  the  hands  of  a  child 
king,  Louis  XIV  (1638-1715),  of  a  queen-regent,  Anne  of 
Austria,  and  of  a  cardinal-statesman,  Mazarin. 

The  foreign  war  seemed  the  most  important  matter  to 
push,  and  the  French  armies  met  with  such  success  that  five 
years  after  Louis'  accession  the  emperor  capitulated.  France 
won  both  land  and  fame  abroad,  but  she  paid  for  it  dearly  at 
home.  The  heavy  expenses  of  war  so  prolonged  had  been 
met  by  increasingly  heavy  taxation  until  the  country  was 
exhausted.  Nobles,  bourgeois,  peasants — all  were  drained, 
and  all  classes  were  becoming  more  and  more  aroused  by  the 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   127 

irresponsible  power  of  a  government  against  which  there  was 
no  appeal.  A  reform  party  calling  itself  the  Fronde  (sling) 
and  made  up  of  the  Paris  law  courts,  of  the  nobility,  and  of 
the  Paris  mob,  directed  a  rather  jaunty  opposition  against 
Mazarin,  who  was  exiled  for  a  time,  but  returned  in  triumph. 
The  whole  movement  gained  none  of  the  points  demanded — 
restraint  of  royal  authority  and  recognition  of  the  people's 
rights — and  when  the  uproar  was  over  the  king  was  more 
firmly  in  the  saddle  than  ever,  while  the  people  of  the  cities 
were  impoverished  and  demoralized  and  the  country  folk 
were  reduced  to  despair  by  the  ruthless  destruction  of  their 
scanty  crops.  Robbers  wandered  through  the  fields,  thugs 
made  town  streets  dangerous,  babies  were  thrown  into 
corners  to  die  or  were  sold  to  serve  as  part  of  the  professional 
beggar's  stock  in  trade. 

CARDINAL  DE  RETZ  (1614-1679),  in  spite  of  his  title  a 
politician  and  an  author  rather  than  a  man  of  religion,  wrote 
about  the  middle  of  the  century  "Memoirs"  of  incalculable 
value  to  the  student  of  history.  His  comparison  of  the  two 
great  cardinal-rulers  of  France  is  a  thoroughly  interesting 
contemporary  analysis. 

RICHELIEU  AND  MAZARIN 

(From  "Half  Hours  with  the  Best  French  Authors") 

Cardinal  de  Richelieu  was  of  good  birth.  In  his  youth  he  showed 
signs  of  future  merit.  He  distinguished  himself  at  the  Sorbonne,  and 
it  was  early  remarked  that  he  possessed  strength  and  vivacity  of  mind. 
He  generally  chose  his  side  very  well.  He  was  a  man  of  his  word  when  any 
great  interest  did  not  force  him  to  be  otherwise;  and  in  that  case  he 
never  forgot  anything  by  which  he  might  preserve  the  appearance  of 
good  faith.  He  was  not  liberal,  but  he  gave  more  than  he  promised,  and 
he  seasoned  his  gifts  admirably.  He  loved  glory  much  more  than  is 
consistent  with  morality,  but  it  must  be  admitted  that  he  did  not  abuse 
the  license  which  he  gave  to  his  excessive  ambition  beyond  the  pro- 
portion of  his  merit.  He  had  neither  mind  nor  heart  above  danger,  nor 


128  .  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

yet  did  they  sink  beneath  it;  and  it  may  be  said  that  he  prevented  more 
danger  by  his  wisdom  than  he  surmounted  by  his  firmness. 

He  was  a  good  friend — he  even  wished  to  be  loved  by  the  public; 
but  although  he  had  good  manners,  a  pleasing  exterior,  and  other  qual- 
ities likely  to  produce  that  effect,  he  never  had  that  indescribable  some- 
thing which  is  more  necessary  than  anything  else.  He  eclipsed  by  his 
power  and  royal  pomp  the  personal  majesty  of  the  king;  but  he  per- 
formed all  the  functions  of  royalty  with  so  much  dignity,  that  it  was  only 
those  who  were  above  the  vulgar  that  could  see  what  was  good  and  what 
evil  in  this  case.  He  distinguished  more  judiciously  than  the  mere  man 
of  the  world  between  bad  and  worse,  between  good  and  better;  which  is 
a  great  quality  in  a  minister.  He  became  too  easily  impatient  about 
the  little  things  which  were  steps  to  great  things;  but  this  defect,  which 
arises  from  elevation  of  mind,  is  always  united  to  a  clearness  of  under- 
standing which  makes  up  for  it. 

He  had  enough  religion  for  this  world.  He  did  right  either  from  in- 
clination or  from  good  sense,  except  when  his  interest  led  him  to  do  wrong; 
and  then  he  knew  perfectly  that  he  was  doing  wrong  even  while  he  did 
it.  He  only  considered  the  good  of  the  state  for  his  own  life-time;  and 
yet  no  minister  ever  took  more  pains  to  have  it  believed  that  he  was 
ruling  for  the  future.  Lastly  it  must  be  confessed  that  all  his  vices  were 
those  which  can  only  be  brought  into  use  by  means  of  great  virtues. 

You  can  easily  imagine  that  a  man  who  had  such  great  qualities,  and 
so  much  appearance,  too,  of  those  which  he  did  not  possess,  easily  pre- 
served for  himself  in  the  world  that  sort  of  respect  which  separates  con- 
tempt from  hatred,  and  which  in  a  state  that  has  no  longer  any  laws 
makes  up  for  the  want  of  them — at  least,  for  a  time. 

The  character  of  Cardinal  Mazarin  was  just  the  reverse.  His  birth  was 
low  and  his  childhood  one  of  shame.  On  leaving  the  Coliseum  he  learned 
to  cheat,  by  which  he  earned  a  beating  from  a  goldsmith  of  Rome  named 
Moreto.  He  became  a  captain  of  infantry  at  Vclteline,  and  Bagni,  who 
was  his  general,  has  told  me  that  he  passed  in  the  war,  which  only  lasted 
three  months,  for  nothing  better  than  a  sharper.  He  gained  the  office 
of  nuncio  extraordinary  in  France  through  the  favor  of  Cardinal  Antonio 
Barberini,  which  office  was  never  gained  at  that  time  by  fair  means. 
He  pleased  Chavigni  by  his  licentious  Italian  stories,  and  through 
Chavigni  he  pleased  Richelieu,  who  made  him  Cardinal  in  the  same  spirit 
as  that  which  impelled  Augustus  to  leave  the  succession  to  the  empire 
to  Tiberius.  The  purple  did  not  hinder  him  from  remaining  a  servant 
under  Richelieu.  The  queen  having  chosen  him— for  want  of  another, 
it  is  true,  let  people  say  what  they  will — he  appeared  at  first  as  the 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   129 

original  of  Trivelino  principe.  Fortune  having  dazzled  him  and  every- 
one else,  he  set  himself  up  and  was  set  up  by  others,  for  a  Richelieu,  but 
he  gained  by  it  only  the  impudence  of  imitation.  He  procured  to  him- 
self by  shame  all  that  the  latter  had  procured  by  honor.  He  laughed 
at  religion.  He  promised  everything  because  he  never  meant  to  keep  his 
word.  He  was  neither  gentle  nor  cruel,  because  he  remembered  neither 
benefits  nor  injuries.  He  loved  himself  too  much,  which  is  natural  to 
cowardly  souls:  he  feared  himself  too  little,  which  is  the  character  of 
those  who  do  not  care  about  their  reputation.  He  foresaw  evil  well 
enough,  because  he  was  often  frightened;  but  he  did  not  as  readily  supply 
a  remedy,  because  he  was  not  so  prudent  as  fearful.  He  possessed  wit, 
insinuation,  gayety  and  good  manners,  but  his  base  heart  appeared 
through  everything,  and  to  that  degree  that  these  qualities  seemed  in 
adversity  quite  ridiculous,  and  even  in  prosperity  did  not  quite  lose  an 
appearance  of  imposture.  He  carried  the  tricks  of  a  sharper  into  the 
ministry,  which  he  alone  has  ever  done,  and  these  tricks  made  the  min- 
istry, even  when  it  was  happy  and  prosperous,  to  appear  unbecoming, 
and  caused  contempt  to  step  in,  which  is  the  most  dangerous  malady 
of  a  state,  and  the  contagion  of  which  spreads  most  easily  and  quickly 
from  the  head  to  the  members. 

Upon  Mazarin's  death  Louis  XIV  took  upon  himself  the 
control  of  affairs,  and  for  the  rest  of  his  life  worked  hard  at  the 
task  to  which  he  sincerely  believed  that  he  was  divinely 
appointed.  If  he  divested  his  people  of  every  particle  of 
self-reliance  it  was  because  he  truly  thought  himself  to  be 
possessed  of  a  God-given  intelligence  which  could  decide  for 
them  better  than  they  could  decide  for  themselves.  He 
made  all  favors  to  the  nobility  contingent  upon  their  living 
where  he  could  best  observe  their  activities — that  is,  with 
him,  in  the  huge  palace  at  Versailles,  whose  gorgeousness  so 
aroused  the  envy  of  the  other  monarchs  of  Europe  that  they 
nearly  burst  with  envy,  as  La  Fontaine  described  in  the 
fable  of 

THE  FROG  AND  THE  BULL 

A  little  frog  beheld  a  lordly  bull, 

Admired  much  his  grand  and  massive  build, 

While  he,  egg  size,  with  envy  sore  was  full. 


130  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

With  air  straightway  his  tiny  lungs  he  filled 

And  strove  to  change  his  puny  size  and  grow. 

"My  brother,  look,"  determin'dly  cried  he. 

"Am  I  not  now  as  large?"    "Indeed,  not  so." 

"How  now,  then?"    "No,  indeed."    "Now  must  I  be!" 

"You  still  come  nowhere  near."    In  sheer  despair 

The  frog  distended  so  his  skin  he  burst  in  air. 

The  world  is  full  of  people  no  more  sage; 

The  burgher's  house  adds  on  a  princely  wing, 

A  retinue  surrounds  each  petty  king, 

Each  petty  marquis  needs  must  have  his  page. 

The  estates  of  the  nobles  meanwhile  went  from  bad  to 
worse  without  the  supervision  of  their  masters,  though  the 
administration  of  the  king's  paternal  laws  permitted  the 
government  officials  to  intrude  upon  every  phase  of  life, 
domestic  as  well  as  public. 

As  the  courtiers  became  more  and  more  subservient  to  the 
king's  will  they  conformed  more  and  more  to  his  ideas  of 
etiquette,  and  as  his  rules  were  based  not  on  convenience  or 
comfort  or  propriety  but  on  a  recognition  of  rank  they  be- 
came more  and  more  regulated  by  command.  Court  life  was 
one  long  round  of  discomfort  and  jealousy  and  was  made 
duller  because  lived  according  to  order.  Yet  it  had  the 
brilliancy  that  sometimes  accompanies  order  without  spon- 
taneity, the  brilliancy  of  a  marching  column  swinging  along 
in  a  rhythm  as  perfect  as  it  is  lacking  in  individuality.  Dress 
was  magnificent,  equipages  were  magnificent,  appointments 
were  magnificent;  and  as  the  court  was,  so  the  bourgeois  tried 
to  be.  The  wealthier  tradesmen  aped  the  courtiers  in  ap- 
pearance and  in  follies,  and  played  the  snob  toward  their 
poorer  friends  just  as  the  nobles  at  Versailles  behaved  toward 
their  relatives  in  the  country.  The  external  glory  and  rigid- 
ity and  the  inner  discomfort  was  society's  brand  under 
Louis  XIV. 

In  the  name  of  his  master,  Louis'  minister,  Colbert,  en- 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   131 

couraged  agriculture,  industry  and  commerce,  reorganized 
the  country's  finances,  created  a  navy  and  built  public  works. 
With  his  court  the  most  brilliant  in  Europe,  his  land  sup- 
posedly the  best-administered,  and  his  power  spreading  in 
the  New  World,  the  "Sun  King"  determined  to  add  to  his 
glory  by  taking  advantage  of  the  improvement  of  his  army 
under  Louvois,  the  minister  of  war,  and  by  making  his  power 
felt  throughout  Europe.  He  fought  with  the  Spanish  Nether- 
lands and  with  Holland,  gained  some  valuable  territory  and 
bore  himself  so  becomingly  that  enthusiastic  Paris  erected  the 
triumphal  arches  of  St.  Denis  and  St.  Martin  in  his  honor 
and  declared  him  worthy  to  be  called  "The  Grand  Mon- 
arch." 

At  the  same  time  the  country  was  returning  again  to  the 
state  in  which  Mazarin  had  found  it.  The  wars,  prosecuted 
for  fifteen  years,  had  exhausted  the  treasury  and  taxation 
could  draw  no  water  from  an  empty  well.  Again  the  peas- 
antry were  in  straits  almost  unbelievable.  Great  numbers  of 
them  lived  like  pigs  on  roots,  disease  followed  famine,  and 
the  stricken  living  were  too  weak  to  care  for  the  dead  who 
lay  in  the  fields  unburied  and  spreading  pestilence.  A 
woman  was  found  dead,  a  child  stirring  at  her  breast  and  her 
mouth  filled  with  grass,  a  wretched  semblance  of  food. 

The  only  cheering  side  to  this  shocking  picture  is  the  true 
goodness  of  heart  which  it  brought  out  in  men  and  women 
who  gave  their  lives  to  going  about  among  the  suffering, 
giving  alms,  nursing  the  sick,  and  caring  for  the  orphans. 
Fortunately  the  king's  failure  to  grasp  his  subjects'  dire  need 
was  not  shared  by  all  of  those  about  him,  for  many  men 
and  women  of  rank  joined  the  benevolent  or  nursing  semi- 
religious  orders,  and  many  of  the  clergy  were  outspoken  in 
reproach  as  well  as  active  in  service.  Fenelon,  Archbishop 
of  Cambrai.  told  his  majesty  frankly  that  all  France  was  a 
hospital — a  hospital  unprovided  with  food. 


13  2  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

If  any  proof  were  needed  that  the  king  did  not  understand 
the  pass  to  which  France  had  come  his  next  step  would 
supply  it.  Drunken  with  his  own  importance  Louis  feared 
the  democratic  spirit  inherent  in  the  Huguenot  movement. 
Protestantism  had  originated  in  independence  of  thought, 
and  it  called  to  its  ranks  bourgeois  and  peasant  as  well  as 
noble.  It  seemed  as  if  it  might  be  the  one  bond  possible  to 
unite  people  otherwise  separated  by  the  great  breach  of  class 
division,  and  as  such  a  possibility  the  Grand  Monarch  feared 
its  latent  power  against  his  absolutism.  He  revoked  the 
Edict  of  Nantes  and  turned  loose  upon  the  Protestants  a 
brutal  soldiery  whose  methods  of  conversion  read  like  the 
tortures  by  the  American  Indians  upon  the  early  settlers. 
Half  a  million  of  the  most  useful  inhabitants  of  France,  the 
men  whose  thrift  and  intelligence  and  skill  had  placed  French 
crafts  at  the  head  of  the  world  of  crafts,  fled  the  country,  not 
only  contributing  their  abilities  to  the  advantage  of  the  lands 
in  which  they  took  refuge,  but  also  bearing  with  them  a 
hatred  of  their  persecutors  which  inspired  them  to  fight  with 
England  under  William  of  Orange  against  France  and  a 
thirst  for  independence  which  made  them  eager  Americans 
in  our  war  of  the  Revolution,  ninety  years  later. 

Louis'  impatience  of  any  power  that  might  cross  his  own 
showed  itself  not  only  in  his  attitude  toward  the  Huguenots 
but  in  his  behavior  toward  the  pope,  whose  supremacy  of  the 
French  Catholic  Church  he  forced  the  French  clergy  to  deny. 

The  last  years  of  Louis's  reign  were  given  over  to  wars  in 
which  the  Duke  of  Marlboro  ugh  made  a  glorious  name  for 
England  and  Queen  Anne  and  which  resulted  in  Louis's 
losing  land,  men,  ships,  treasure,  power,  and  reputation.  The 
Sun  King  died  in  1715  after  a  reign  of  seventy-two  years,  a 
poor  man  in  the  land  which  he  had  ruined;  hated  by  the 
subjects  whom  he  had  impoverished. 

The  long  reign  of  Louis  XIV  corresponded  to  a  troubled 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH       133 

period  in  England.  The  Jacobite  influence  compassed  the 
overthrow  of  the  Commonwealth  and  the  return  hi  1660  of 
the  Stuarts  in  the  person  of  Charles  II.  Charles's  brother 
James  succeeded  him  in  1685  and  his  "divine"  pretensions 
brought  to  pass  the  Glorious  Revolution  of  1688  by  which  his 
son-in-law,  William  of  Orange,  was  called  to  the  English 
throne.  His  accession  strengthened  the  coalition  of  prac- 
tically all  Europe  against  the  Grand  Monarch.  The  war 
waxed  and  waned  for  years  not  only  in  William's  reign  but 
in  Anne's  (from  1701-1714). 

English  literature  held  some  great  names  at  this  time. 
Shakspere's  Sonnets  appeared,  Bacon  published  during  the 
first  decade,  Raleigh  wrote  his  "History  of  the  World," 
Milton's  stately  music  rang  out  for  all  time,  Chapman  and 
Wycherley  and  Congreve  wrote  plays,  and  Herrick,  Suck- 
ling, and  Lovelace  sang  charming  lyrics,  Evelyn  and  Pepys 
chattered  about  the  news  of  the  day,  Dryden  turned  out 
rhythmical  couplets,  Bunyan  gave  his  vision  to  the  world. 

In  a  century  of  so  many  and  such  profound  changes  as 
occurred  in  France  there  should,  it  seems,  have  been  an  al- 
most infinite  range  of  thought.  History  was  making  rapidly, 
the  field  of  economics  was  being  cultivated  in  a  variety  of 
ways,  the  philosophy  of  life  was  receiving  ample  material  for 
that  reflection  which  might  find  expression  in  writing  or  in 
political  or  pulpit  oratory,  the  amenities  were  extravagantly 
encouraged  by  a  court  sufficiently  dilettante  yet  of  accurate 
judgment  as  to  finenesses  both  of  thought  and  expression. 

For  the  discussion  of  all  these  themes  there  arose  writers 
of  many  classes.  Courtiers  wrote  memoirs,  romances,  plays, 
verse;  clerics  penned  their  meditations  or  scored  society's 
faults  from  the  pulpit;  educated  bourgeois  developed  many 
literary  forms. 

Nor  were  these  literary  men  without  encouragement. 
Richelieu  had  a  pretty  taste  in  letters  and  kept  a  group  of 


134  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

writers,  among  them  Corneille,  working  out  his  plots.  He 
started  (1631)  the  Gazette  de  France,  the  first  French  news- 
paper permitted  to  mention  politics;  and  he  established 
(1635)  the  French  Academy.  The  cardinal's  real  object  was 
to  have  a  band  of  men  on  whom  he  could  rely  to  defend  the 
government  by  their  pens.  The  ostensible  purpose  of  the 
institution  was  to  preserve  the  purity  of  the  French  language. 
It  still  persists  in  its  guardianship,  and  has  at  least  kept  slang 
out  of  its  authorized  dictionary  if  not  out  of  conversation. 
Membership  is  the  highest  honor  that  France  can  give  to  a 
writer,  and  its  forty  members,  the  "Immortals,"  have 
"crowned"  with  approval  many  worthy — not  always  stim- 
ulating— books.  One  of  its  earliest  duties  was  to  decide  as  to 
the  merits  of  Corneille's  "Cid,"  which  they  did  with  such 
diplomacy  that  nobody  was  satisfied. 

An  unofficial  source  of  encouragement  to  the  wielders  of 
the  pen  was  the  HOTEL  DE  RAMBOUILLET,  the  earliest  and 
most  famous  of  the  literary  salons  wherein  conversation  be- 
came an  art,  delicate  literary  expression  a  science,  and 
criticism  an  application  of  cultivated  discernment.  Three 
women  of  charm  and  cleverness  presided  over  these  salons, 
the  Marquise  de  Rambouillet  and  her  two  daughters.  The 
meetings  were  held  first  at  about  the  time  of  Henry  IV's 
death  (1610),  and  were  the  natural  coming  together  of  a 
group  of  people  eager  to  create  an  atmosphere  more  refined 
than  that  of  the  court  of  the  fighting  and  practical  Henry  of 
Navarre.  Richelieu  approved  of  them,  but  the  quarrelsome 
days  of  Louis  XIII  were  not  conducive  to  gentleness,  and  the 
reaction  from  them  produced  an  exaggerated  carefulness  of 
expression,  a  prcciosite  or  "prcciousness"  that  was  ridiculous 
though  sincere.  To  call  a  chair  a  "wherewithal  for  conversa- 
tion" would  seem  at  least  to  hinder  the  briskness  of  the  de- 
sired interchange.  Purity  of  speech  was  not  the  only  stand- 
ard set  by  the  frequenters  of  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet;  they 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY—  THE  SEVENTEENTH       135 

redeemed  spoken  language  from  vulgarity  —  they  also  wrought 
a  real  improvement  in  the  literature  and  even  in  the  thought 
of  the  time.  The  most  brilliant  period  of  the  H6tel  de  Ram- 
bouillet  corresponded  with  the  height  of  Richelieu's  power  — 
from  about  1630-1650,  and  every  worth-while  writer,  thinker 
and  talker  in  France  was  welcomed  there  by  kindred  spirits. 
As  provincial  towns  are  inclined  to  ape  the  city  so  society 
in  the  smaller  cities  adopted  a  literary  air  and  "  preciousness  " 
of  speech.  Moliere's  play,  "Les  Precieuses  Ridicules"  bur- 
lesques these  imitators. 

THE  AFFECTED  LADIES  * 
PERSONS  REPRESENTED 


GORGIBUS,  a  worthy  citizen. 

MARQUIS  OF  MASCARILLE,  valet  to  LA  GRANGE. 

VISCOUNT  OF  JODELET,  valet  to  Du  CROISV. 

ALMANZOR,  page  to  MADELON  and  CATHOS. 

MADELON,  daughter  to  GORGIBUS. 

CATHOS,  niece  to  GORGIBUS. 

MAROTTE,  maid  to  MADELON  and  CATHOS. 

Porters,  neighbours,  musicians. 

SCENE  I.  —  LA  GRANGE,  Du  CROISY 

Du  CRO.     I  say,  La  Grange. 

LA  GRA.    What? 

Du  CRO.     Look  at  me  a  little  without  laughing. 

LA  GRA.    Well! 

Du  CRO.  What  do  you  think  of  our  visit;  are  you  much  pleased  with 
it? 

LA  GRA.     Has  either  of  us  reason  to  be  so,  in  your  opinion? 

Du  CRO.     No  great  reason,  if  the  truth  be  told. 

LA  GRA.  For  my  part  I  am  dreadfully  put  out  about  it.  Did  ever 
anybody  meet  with  a  couple  of  silly  country  wenches  giving  themselves 
such  airs  as  these?  Did  ever  anybody  see  two  men  treated  with  more 
contempt  than  we  were?  It  was  as  much  as  they  could  do  to  bring  them- 
selves to  order  chairs  for  us.  I  never  saw  such  whispering,  such  yawning, 
such  rubbing  of  eyes,  such  constant  asking  what  o'clock  it  was.  Why, 
they  answered  nothing  but  yes  or  no  to  all  we  said  to  them.  Don't  you 
think  with  me,  that  had  we  been  the  meanest  persons  in  the  world,  they 
could  hardly  have  behaved  more  rudely  than  they  did? 

Du  CRO.    You  seem  to  take  it  very  much  to  heart. 

•  Courtesy  of  The  Macmillan  Company. 


136 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 


LA  GRA.  I  should  think  I  do.  I  feel  it  so  much  that  I  am  determined 
to  be  revenged  on  them  for  their  impertinence.  I  know  well  enough 
what  made  them  look  so  coldly  upon  us:  euphuism  not  only  infects 
Paris,  but  has  spread  all  over  the  country,  and  our  absurd  damsels  have 
inhaled  their  good  share  of  it.  In  a  word,  they  are  a  compound  of  ped- 
antry and  affectation.  I  see  pretty  well  what  a  man  must  be  like  to  be 
well  received  by  them,  and  if  you  take  my  advice,  we  will  play  them  a 
trick  which  shall  show  them  their  folly,  and  teach  them  in  future  to, 
judge  people  with  more  discernment. 

Du  CRO.     All  right;  but  how  will  you  manage  it? 

LA  GRA.  I  have  a  certain  valet,  named  Mascarille,  who  in  the  opinion 
of  many  people  passes  for  a  kind  of  wit, — nothing  is  cheaper  now-a- 
days  than  wit, — an  absurd  fellow,  who  has  taken  into  his  head  to  ape 
the  man  of  rank.  He  prides  himself  upon  love-intrigues  and  poetry,  and 
despises  those  of  his  own  condition,  so  far  as  to  call  them  vulgar  wretches. 

Du  CRO.     And  what  use  do  you  intend  to  make  of  him? 

LA  GRA.  I  will  tell  you;  he  must  ....  but  let  us  first  get 
away  from  here. 

SCENE  II. — GORGIBUS,  Du  CROISY,  LA  GRANGE 

GOR.  Well,  gentleman,  you  have  seen  my  daughter  and  my  niece; 
did  all  run  smoothly?  what  is  the  result  of  your  visit? 

LA  GRA.  This  you  may  better  learn  from  them  than  from  us;  all 
we  can  say  is,  that  we  thank  you  for  the  honour  you  have  done  us,  and 
remain  your  most  humble  servants. 

Du  CRO.    And  remain  your  most  humble  servants. 

(Exeunt.) 

GOR.  Heyday!  They  seem  to  go  away  dissatisfied;  what  can  have 
displeased  them?  I  must  know  what's  the  matter.  I  say  there! 

SCENE  III. — GORGIBUS,  MAROTTE 

MAR.     Did  you  call,  sir? 

GOR.     Where  are  your  mistresses? 

MAR.     In  their  dressing-room,  sir. 

GOR.     What  are  they  doing? 

MAR.     Making  lip-salve. 

GOR.    They  are  always  making  salve.    Tell  them  to  come  down. 

(Exit  MAROTTE.) 
SCENE  IV. — GORGIBUS 

I  believe  these  foolish  girls  have  determined  to  ruin  me  with  their 
ointments.  I  see  nothing  about  here  but  white  of  eggs,  milk  of  roses, 
and  a  thousand  fiddle-faddles  that  I  know  nothing  about.  Since  we 
came  here  they  have  used  the  fat  of  a  dozen  hogs  at  least,  and  four 
servants  might  live  on  the  sheep's  trotters  they  daily  require. 

SCENE  V. — MADELON,  CATHOS,  GORGIBUS 

GOR.  There  is  great  need,  surely,  for  you  to  spend  so  much  money 
in  greasing  your  nozzles!  Tell  me,  please,  what  you  can  have  done  to 
those  gentlemen,  that  I  see  them  going  away  so  coldly.  Did  I  not  ask 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH       137 

you  to  receive  them  as  persons  whom  I  intended  to  give  you  for  hus- 
bands? 

MAD.  What!  my  father,  could  you  expect  us  to  have  any  regard 
for  the  unconventional  proceedings  of  such  people? 

CAT.  What!  my  uncle,  could  you  expect  any  girl,  to  the  smallest 
extent  in  her  senses,  to  reconcile  herself  to  their  persons? 

GOR.     And  what  is  there  the  matter  with  them? 

MAD.  A  fine  way  of  making  love  to  be  sure,  to  begin  at  once  with 
marriage! 

GOR.  And  what  would  you  have  them  begin  with — concubinage? 
Does  not  their  conduct  honour  you  as  much  as  it  does  me?  Can  any- 
thing be  more  complimentary  to  you?  and  is  not  the  sacred  bond  they 
propose  a  proof  of  the  honesty  of  their  intentions? 

MAD.  Ah!  father,  how  all  you  are  saying  betrays  the  vulgarity  of 
your  taste;  I  am  ashamed  to  hear  you  speak  as  you  do,  and  really  you 
should  make  yourself  acquainted  with  the  fashionable  air  of  things. 

GOR.  I  care  neither  for  airs  nor  songs.  I  tell  you  that  marriage  is  a 
holy  and  sacred  thing,  and  that  they  acted  like  honourable  men  in  speak- 
ing of  it  to  you  from  the  first. 

MAD.  Really,  if  everybody  was  like  you,  how  soon  a  love-romance 
would  be  ended!  What  a  fine  thing  it  would  have  been  if  at  starting 
Cyrus  had  married  Mandane,  and  Aronce  had  been  given  straight  off 
to  Clelie!  * 

GOR.    What  in  the  world  is  the  girl  talking  about! 

MAD.  My  cousin  will  tell  you,  as  well  as  I,  that  marriage,  my  father, 
should  never  take  place  till  after  other  adventures.  A  lover  who  wants 
to  be  attractive  should  know  how  to  utter  noble  sentiments,  to  sigh  deli- 
cate, tender,  and  rapturous  vows.  He  should  pay  his  addresses  according 
to  rules.  In  the  first  place,  it  should  be  either  at  church  or  in  the  prom- 
enade, or  at  some  public  ceremony,  that  he  first  sees  the  fair  one  with 
whom  he  falls  in  love;  or  else  fate  should  will  his  introduction  to  her  by  a 
relation  or  a  friend,  and  he  should  leave  her  house  thoughtful  and  melan- 
choly. For  a  while,  he  conceals  his  love  from  the  object  of  his  passion, 
but  in  the  meantime  pays  her  several  visits,  during  which  he  never  fails 
to  start  some  subject  of  gallantry  to  exercise  the  thoughts  of  the  assem- 
bled company.  The  day  arrives  for  him  to  make  his  declaration.  This 
should  take  place  usually  in  some  leafy  garden-walk,  whilst  everybody 
is  out  of  hearing.  The  declaration  is  followed  by  our  immediate  dis- 
pleasure, which  shows  itself  by  our  blushing,  and  causes  our  lover  to  be 
banished  for  a  time  from  our  presence.  He  finds  afterwards  the  means 
to  appease  us;  to  accustom  us,  by  insensible  degrees,  to  the  rehearsal 
of  his  passion,  and  to  obtain  from  us  that  confession  which  causes  us  so 
much  pain.  Then  follow  adventures:  rivals  who  thwart  our  mutual 
inclination,  persecution  of  fathers,  jealousy  based  upon  false  appear- 
ances, reproaches,  despair,  elopement,  and  its  consequences.  It  is  thus 
things  are  carried  on  in  high  society,  and  in  a  well-regulated  love-affair 
these  rules  cannot  be  dispensed  with.  But  to  plunge  headlong  into  a 
proposal  of  marriage,  to  make  love  and  the  marriage  settlements  go  hand 
in  hand,  is  to  begin  the  romance  at  the  wrong  end.  Once  more,  father, 

•  Characters  in  the  romance*  of  Mademoiselle  dc  Scude'ry,  "Artemfne"  and  "Cle'lie." 


138  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

there  is  nothing  more  shopkeeper-like  than  such  proceedings,  and  the 
bare  mention  of  it  makes  me  feel  ill. 

GOR.  What  the  devil  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  jargon?  Is  it  what 
you  call,  "elevated  style?" 

CAT.  Indeed,  uncle,  my  cousin  states  the  case  with  all  veracity. 
How  can  one  be  expected  to  receive  with  gratification  persons  whose 
addresses  are  altogether  an  impropriety?  I  feel  certain  that  they  have 
never  seen  the  map*  of  the  Country  of  Tenderness,  and  that  Billets-doux, 
Trifling  attentions,  Flattering  letters,  and  Sprightly  verses  are  regions  un- 
known to  them.  Was  it  not  plainly  marked  in  all  their  person?  Are  you 
not  conscious  that  their  external  appearance  was  in  no  way  calculated 
to  give  a  good  opinion  of  them  at  first  sight?  To  come  on  a  love-visit 
with  a  leg  lacking  adornment,  a  hat  destitute  of  feathers,  a  head  un- 
artistic  as  to  its  hair,  and  a  coat  that  suffers  from  an  indigence  of  rib- 
bons! Heavens!  what  lovers!  What  frugality  of  dress!  What  barren- 
ness of  conversation!  It  is  not  to  be  endured.  I  also  noticed  that  their 
bands  were  not  made  by  the  fashionable  milliner,  and  that  their  breeches 
were  at  least  six  inches  too  narrow. 

GOR.  I  believe  they  are  both  crazed;  not  a  word  can  I  understand 
of  all  this  gibberish — Cathos,  and  you,  Madelon  .... 

MAD.     Pray,  father,  give  up  those  strange  names,  and  call  us  otherwise. 

GOR.  Strange  names!  what  do  you  mean?  are  they  not  those  which 
were  given  you  at  your  baptism? 

MAD.  Ah  me!  how  vulgar  you  are!  My  constant  wonder  is  that  you 
could  ever  have  such  a  soul  of  wit  as  I  for  a  daughter.  Did  ever  any- 
body in  refined  language  speak  of  "Cathos"  and  "Madelon,"  and  must 
you  not  admit  that  a  name  such  as  either  of  these,  would  be  quite  suffi- 
cient to  ruin  the  finest  romance  in  the  world? 

CAT.  It  is  but  too  true,  uncle,  that  it  painfully  shocks  a  delicate  ear 
to  hear  those  names  pronounced;  and  the  name  of  Polixene  which  my 
cousin  has  chosen,  f  and  that  of  Aminte  which  I  have  taken  for  myself, 
have  a  charm  which  you  cannot  deny. 

GOR.  Listen  to  me;  one  word  is  as  good  as  a  hundred.  I  won't  have 
you  adopt  any  other  name  than  those  given  to  you  by  your  godfathers 
and  godmothers;  and  as  for  the  gentlemen  in  question,  I  know  their 
families  and  their  fortune,  and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  you  shall 
take  them  for  husbands.  I  am  tired  of  having  you  upon  my  hands;  it 
is  too  much  for  a  man  of  my  age  to  have  to  look  after  two  young  girls. 

CAT.  Well,  uncle,  all  I  can  say  is  that  I  think  marriage  is  altogether 
a  very  shocking  thing.  How  can  one  endure  the  thought  of  lying  by 
the  side  of  a  man  really  unclothed. 

MAD.  Let  us  enjoy  for  a  time  the  beau  monde  of  Paris,  where  we  are 
only  just  arrived.  Let  us  leisurely  weave  our  own  romance,  and  do  not, 
we  beg,  hasten  so  much  its  conclusion. 

GOR.  (aside).  They  are  far  gone,  there  is  no  doubt  about  it.  (aloud) 
Once  more,  understand  me,  get  rid  of  all  this  nonsense,  for  I  mean  to 
have  my  own  way;  to  cut  matters  short,  either  you  will  both  be  married 
before  long  or,  upon  my  word,  you  shall  both  be  shut  up  in  a  nunnery. 
I'll  take  my  oath  of  it.  (Exit.) 

•  "Carte  du  tfniirc"  published  in  the  first  part  of  "Cldlie." 
t  All  the  " Prccicuscs"  had  borrowed  names. 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   139 

SCENE  VI. — CATHOS,  MADELON 

CAT.  Ah!  my  dear,  how  deeply  immersed  in  matter  your  father  is, 
how  dull  is  his  understanding,  and  what  darkness  overcasts  his  soul. 

MAD.  What  can  I  say,  my  dear?  I  am  thoroughly  ashamed  for  him. 
I  can  scarcely  persuade  myself  that  I  am  really  his  daughter,  and  I  feel 
sure  that  at  some  future  time  it  will  be  discovered  that  I  am  of  a  more 
illustrious  descent. 

CAT.  I  fully  believe  it;  yes,  it  is  exceedingly  probable.  And  when 
I  too  consider  myself  ....  (Enter  MAROTTE.) 

SCENE  VII. — CATIIOS,  MADELON,  MAROTTE 

MAR.  There  is  a  footman  below,  inquiring  if  you  are  at  home;  he 
says  that  his  master  wants  to  see  you. 

MAD.  Learn,  imbecile,  to  express  yourself  with  less  vulgarity.  Say: 
Here  is  an  indispensable,  who  is  inquiring  if  it  is  convenient  for  you  to  be 
visible. 

MAR.  Why!  I  don't  understand  Latin,  and  I  hav'n't  learned  filsofy 
out  of  the  "Grand  Cyrus,"  as  you  have  done. 

MAD.  The  wretched  creature!  what  a  trial  it  is  to  bear  with  it!  And 
who  is  this  footman's  master? 

MAR.     He  told  me  it  was  the  Marquis  of  Mascarille. 

MAD.  Ah!  my  dear,  a  marquis!  Go  by  all  means,  and  say  that  we 
are  visible.  No  doubt  it  is  some  wit  who  has  heard  us  spoken  of. 

CAT.     It  must  be  so,  my  dear. 

MAD.  We  must  receive  him  in  this  parlour  rather  than  in  our  own 
room.  Let  us  at  least  arrange  our  hair  a  little  and  keep  up  our  reputation. 
Quick,  come  along  and  hold  before  us,  in  here,  the  counsellor  of  the  graces. 

MAR.  Goodness!  I  don't  know  what  kind  of  an  animal  that  is;  you 
must  speak  like  a  Christian  if  you  wish  me  to  understand  you. 

CAT.  Bring  us  the  looking-glass,  ignorant  girl  that  you  are,  and  mind 
you  do  not  defile  its  brightness  by  the  communication  of  your  image. 

(Exeunt.) 
SCENE  VIII. — MASCARILLE  and  lu-o  CHAIRMEN 

MASC.  Stop,  chairmen,  stop!  Gently,  gently,  be  careful  I  say!  One 
would  think  these  rascals  intend  to  break  me  to  pieces  against  the  walls 
and  pavement. 

IST  CH.  Well!  you  see,  master,  the  door  is  narrow,  and  you  wished 
us  to  bring  you  right  in. 

MASC.  I  should  think  so!  Would  you  have  me,  jackanapes,  risk 
the  condition  of  my  feathers  to  the  inclemencies  of  the  rainy  season,  and 
that  I  should  give  to  the  mud  the  impression  of  my  shoes?  Be  off,  take 
your  chair  away. 

2ND  CH.     Pay  us,  then,  sir,  if  you  please. 

MASC.     Ha!  what's  that  you  say? 

2ND  CH.     I  say,  sir,  that  we  want  our  money,  if  you  please. 

MASC.  (ghing  him  a  box  on  the  car).  How,  scoundrel,  you  ask  money 
of  a  person  of  my  rank ! 

2x0  CH.  Are  poor  people  to  be  paid  in  this  fashion?  and  does  your 
rank  get  us  a  dinner? 


140  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

MASC.  Ha!  I  will  teach  you  to  know  your  right  place!  Do  you  dare, 
you  scoundrels,  to  set  me  at  defiance? 

IST  CH.  (taking  up  one  of  the  poles  of  the  chair).  Pay  us  at  once; 
that's  what  I  say. 

MASC.     What? 

IST  CH.     I  must  have  the  money  this  minute. 

MASC.     Now  this  is  a  sensible  fellow. 

IST  CH.     Quick  then. 

MASC.  Ay,  you  speak  as  you  should  do;  but  as  for  that  other  fellow, 
he  doesn't  know  what  he  says.  Here,  are  you  satisfied? 

IST  CH.  No,  you  struck  my  companion,  and  I  ....  (holding 
up  his  pole). 

MASC.  Gently,  here's  something  for  the  blow.  People  can  get  every- 
thing out  of  me  when  they  set  about  it  in  the  right  way;  now  go,  but  mind 
you  come  and  fetch  me  by  and  by,  to  carry  me  to  the  Louvre  for  the 
petit  coucher.* 

SCENE  IX. — MAROTTE,  MASCARILLE 

MAR.     Sir,  my  mistresses  will  be  here  directly. 

MASC.     Tell  them  not  to  hurry  themselves;  I  am  comfortably  estab- 
lished here  for  waiting. 
MAR.    Here  they  are. 

SCENE  X. — MADELON,  CATHOS,  MASCARILLE,  ALMANZOR 

MASC.  (after  having  bowed  to  them).  Ladies,  you  will  be  surprised, 
no  doubt,  at  the  boldness  of  my  visit,  but  your  reputation  brings  this 
troublesome  incident  upon  you;  merit  has  for  me  such  powerful  at- 
tractions, that  I  run  after  it  wherever  it  is  to  be  found. 

MAD.  If  you  pursue  merit,  it  is  not  in  our  grounds  that  you  should 
hunt  after  it. 

CAT.  If  you  find  merit  among  us,  you  must  have  brought  it  here 
yourself. 

MASC.  I  refuse  assent  to  such  an  assertion.  Fame  tells  the  truth 
in  speaking  of  your  worth;  and  you  will  pique,  repique,  and  capot  f 
all  the  fashionable  world  of  Paris. 

MAD.  Your  courtesy  carries  you  somewhat  too  far  in  the  liberality 
of  your  praises,  and  we  must  take  care,  my  cousin  and  I,  not  to  trust  too 
much  to  the  sweetness  of  your  flattery. 

CAT.     My  dear,  we  should  call  for  chairs. 

MAD.     Almanzor! 

ALM.     Madam. 

MAD.  Quick !  convey  us  hither  at  once  the  appliances  of  conversation. 

(ALMANZOR  brings  chairs.) 

MASC.     But  stay,  is  there  any  security  for  me  here? 

CAT.     What  can  you  fear? 

•  Interval  between  the  time  when  the  king  bade  good  night  to  the  courtiers  in  general, 
and  the  time  he  really  went  to  bed. 

t  Terms  from  the  game  of  piquet.    The  sense  is:  you  will  carry  everything  before  you. 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   141 

MASC.  Some  robbery  of  ray  heart,  some  assassination  of  my  free- 
dom. I  see  before  me  two  eyes  which  seem  to  me  to  be  very  dangerous 
fellows;  they  abuse  liberty  and  give  no  quarter.  The  deuce!  no  sooner 
is  any  one  near,  but  they  are  up  in  arms,  and  ready  for  their  murderous 
attack!  Ah!  upon  my  word  I  mistrust  them!  I  shall  either  run  away 
or  require  good  security  that  they  will  do  me  no  harm. 

MAD.     What  playfulness,  my  dear. 

CAT.     Yes,  I  see  he  is  an  Amilcar.* 

MAD.  Do  not  fear;  our  eyes  have  no  evil  intentions,  your  heart  may 
sleep  in  peace  and  may  rest  assured  of  their  innocence. 

CAT.  But,  for  pity's  sake,  sir,  do  not  be  inexorable  to  that  arm-chair 
which  for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  has  stretched  out  its  arms  to  you; 
satisfy  the  desire  it  has  of  embracing  you. 

MASC.  (after  having  combed  himself  and  adjusted  his  cantons).  Well, 
ladies,  what  is  your  opinion  of  Paris? 

MAD.  Alas!  can  there  be  two  opinions?  It  would  be  the  antipodes 
of  reason  not  to  confess  that  Paris  is  the  great  museum  of  wonders,  the 
centre  of  good  taste,  of  wit  and  gallantry. 

MASC.  I  think  for  my  part  that  out  of  Paris  people  of  position  cannot 
exist. 

CAT.    That  is  a  never-to-be-disputed  truth. 

MASC.     It  is  somewhat  muddy,  but  then  we  have  sedan-chairs. 

MAD.  Yes,  a  chair  is  a  wonderful  safeguard  against  the  insults  of 
mud  and  bad  weather. 

MASC.  You  must  have  many  visitors?  What  great  wit  belongs  to 
your  circle? 

MAD.  Alas!  we  are  not  known  yet;  but  we  have  every  hope  of  being 
so  before  long,  and  a  great  friend  of  ours  has  promised  to  bring  us  all 
the  gentlemen  who  have  written  in  the  Elegant  Extracts. 

CAT.  As  well  as  some  others  who,  we  are  told,  are  the  sovereign  judges 
in  matters  of  taste. 

MASC.  Leave  that  to  me!  I  can  manage  that  for  you  better  than  any 
one  else.  They  all  visit  me,  and  I  can  truly  say  that  I  never  get  up  in 
the  morning  without  having  half  a  dozen  wits  about  me. 

MAD.  Ah!  we  should  feel  under  the  greatest  obligation  to  you  if  you 
would  be  so  kind  as  to  do  this  for  us:  for  it  is  certain  one  must  be  ac- 
quainted with  all  those  gentlemen  in  order  to  belong  to  society.  By  them 
reputations  are  made  in  Paris,  and  you  know  that  it  is  quite  sufficient  to 
be  seen  with  some  of  them  to  acquire  the  reputation  of  a  connoisseur, 
even  though  there  should  be  no  other  foundation  for  the  distinction. 
But,  for  my  part,  what  I  value  most  is,  that  in  such  society  we  learn  a 
hundred  things  which  it  is  one's  duty  to  know  and  which  are  the  quin- 
tessence of  wit:  the  scandal  of  the  day;  the  latest  things  out  in  prose  or 
verse.  We  hear  exactly  and  punctually  that  a  Mr.  A.  has  composed  the 
most  beautiful  piece  in  the  world  on  such  and  such  a  subject;  that  Mrs. 
B.  has  adapted  words  to  such  and  such  an  air,  that  Mr.  C.  has  composed 
a  madrigal  on  the  fidelity  of  his  lady-love,  and  Mr.  D.  upon  the  faith- 
lessness of  his;  that  yesterday  evening  Mr.  E.  wrote  a  sixain  f  to  Miss  F., 

•  Character  in  the  romance  of  "Cle'lie." 

t  A  stanza  is  called  quatrain  if  it  has  four  lines,  sixain  if  it  has  six,  kuitain  if  it  has 
eight,  and  so  on. 


142  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

to  which  she  sent  an  answer  this  morning  at  eight  o'clock;  that  Mr.  G. 
has  such  and  such  a  project  in  his  head,  that  Mr.  H.  is  occupied  with 
the  third  volume  of  his  romance,  and  that  Mr.  J.  has  his  work  in  the 
press.  By  knowledge  like  this  we  acquire  consideration  in  every  society; 
whereas  if  we  are  left  in  ignorance  of  such  matters  all  the  wit  we  may 
possess  is  a  thing  of  nought  and  as  dust  in  the  balance. 

CAT.  Indeed  I  think  it  is  carrying  the  ridiculous  to  the  extreme,  for 
any  one  who  makes  the  least  pretence  to  wit,  not  to  know  even  the  last 
little  quatrain  that  has  been  written.  For  my  part  I  should  feel  greatly 
ashamed  if  some  one  were  by  chance  to  ask  me  if  I  had  seen  some  new 
thing,  which  I  had  not  seen. 

MASC.  It  is  true  that  it  is  disgraceful  not  to  be  one  of  the  very  first 
to  know  what  is  going  on.  But  do  not  make  yourself  anxious  about  it; 
I  will  establish  an  Academy  of  wits  in  your  house,  and  I  promise  you 
that  not  a  single  line  shall  be  written  in  all  Paris  which  you  shall  not  know 
by  heart  before  anybody  else.  I,  your  humble  servant,  indulge  a  little 
in  writing  poetry  when  I  feel  in  the  vein;  and  you  will  find  handed  about 
in  all  the  most  fashionable  ruelles*  of  Paris,  two  hundred  songs,  as  many 
sonnets,  four  hundred  epigrams,  and  more  than  a  thousand  madrigals, 
without  reckoning  enigmas  and  portraits. 

MAD.  I  must  acknowledge  that  I  am  madly  fond  of  portraits;  there 
is  nothing  more  elegant  according  to  my  opinion. 

MASC.  Portraits  are  difficult,  and  require  a  deep  insight  into  char- 
acter: f  but  you  shall  sec  some  of  mine  which  will  please  you. 

CAT.     I  must  say  that  for  my  part  I  am  appallingly  fond  of  enigmas. 

MASC.  They  form  a  good  occupation  for  the  mind,  and  I  have  al- 
ready written  four  this  morning,  which  I  will  give  you  to  guess. 

MAD.     Madrigals  are  charming  when  they  are  neatly  turned. 

MASC.  I  have  a  special  gift  that  way,  and  I  am  engaged  in  turning 
the  whole  Roman  History  into  madrigals. 

MAD.  Ah!  that  will  be  exquisite.  Pray  let  me  have  a  copy,  if  you 
publish  it. 

MASC.  I  promise  you  each  a  copy  beautifully  bound.  It  is  beneath 
my  rank  to  occupy  myself  in  that  fashion,  but  I  do  it  for  the  benefit  of 
the  publishers,  who  leave  me  no  peace. 

MAD.  I  should  think  that  it  must  be  a  most  pleasant  thing  to  see 
one's  name  in  print. 

MASC.  Undoubtedly.  By  the  bye,  let  me  repeat  to  you  some  ex- 
tempore verses  I  made  yesterday  at  the  house  of  a  friend  of  mine,  a 
duchess,  whom  I  went  to  see.  You  must  know  that  I'm  a  wonderful 
hand  at  impromptus. 

CAT.     An  impromptu  is  the  touchstone  of  genius. 

MASC.     Listen. 

MAD.     We  are  all  ears. 

*  "Rucllcs."  The  only  equivalent  in  our  days  would  be  drau-inx-rooms.  It  has  some- 
what the  sense  of  "conversazione."  Ladies  used  to  receive  their  visitors  sitting,  or  lying 
dressed  on  a  bed  richly  adorned.  The  small  space  between  the  bed  and  the  wall  was 
icserved  for  their  intimate  friends  or  acquaintances,  and  called  "niclle."  Later  on  they 
gave  up  the  bed,  but  still  received  at  times  in  the  bedroom,  which  retained  the  name  of 
"ruelle." 

t  "Les  Caracteres  de  La  Bruyere"  contains  many  portraits. 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH       143 

MASC.        Oh!  oh !  I  was  not  taking  care. 

While  thinking  not  of  harm,  1  watch  my  fair. 
Your  lurking  eye  my  heart  doth  steal  away. 
Stop  thief!    Stop  thief!    Stop  thief!    I  say. 

CAT.     Ah  me!    It  is  gallant  to  the  last  degree. 

MASC.  Yes,  all  I  do  has  a  certain  easy  air  about  it.  There  is  a  total 
absence  of  the  pedant  about  all  my  writings. 

MAD.     They  are  thousands  and  thousands  of  miles  from  that. 

MASC.  Did  you  notice  the  beginning?  Oh!  oh!  There  is  something 
exceptional  in  that  oh  !  oh  !  like  a  man  who  bethinks  himself  all  of  a  sud- 
den— Oh  !  oh  !  Surprise  is  well  depicted,  is  it  not?  Oh  !  oh  1 

MAD.     Yes,  I  think  that  oh !  oh  !  admirable. 

MASC.     At  first  sight  it  does  not  seem  much. 

CAT.     Ah!  what  do  you  say?  these  things  cannot  be  too  highly  valued. 

MAD.  Certainly,  and  I  would  rather  have  composed  that  oh  I  oh  I  than 
an  epic  poem. 

MASC.     Upon  my  word  now,  you  have  good  taste. 

MAD.     Why,  yes,  perhaps  it's  not  altogether  bad. 

MASC.  But  do  you  not  admire  also,  /  was  not  taking  care  ?  I  was  not 
taking  care:  I  did  not  notice  it,  quite  a  natural  way  of  speaking  you  know: 
/  was  not  taking  care.  While  thinking  not  of  harm:  whilst  innocently, 
without  forethought,  like  a  poor  sheep,  /  watch  my  fair:  that  is  to  say, 
I  amuse  myself  by  considering,  observing,  contemplating  you.  Your 
lurking  eye, — what  do  you  think  of  this  word  lurking  ?  Do  you  not  think 
it  well  chosen? 

CAT.     Perfectly  well. 

MASC.  Lurking,  hiding:  you  would  say,  a  cat  just  going  to  catch  a 
mouse:  lurking. 

MAD.     Nothing  could  be  better. 

MASC.  My  heart  doth  steal  away:  snatch  it  away,  carries  it  off  from  me. 
Stop  thief !  stop  thief !  stop  thief !  Would  you  not  imagine  it  to  be  a  man 
shouting  and  running  after  a  robber?  Stop  thief !  stop  thief  !  stop  thief  ! 

MAD.     It  must  be  acknowledged  that  it  is  witty  and  gallant. 

MASC.     I  must  sing  you  the  tune  I  made  to  it. 

CAT.     Ah!  you  have  learnt  music? 

MASC.     Not  a  bit  of  it! 

CAT.     Then  how  can  you  have  set  it  to  music? 

MASC.  People  of  my  position  know  everything  without  ever  having 
learnt. 

MAD.     Of  course  it  is  so,  my  dear. 

MASC.  Just  listen,  and  see  if  the  tune  is  to  your  taste;  hem,  hem, 
la,  la,  la,  la,  la.  The  brutality  of  the  season  has  greatly  injured  the  deli- 
cacy of  my  voice;  but  it  is  of  no  consequence;  permit  me,  without  cere- 
mony: (he  sings) 

Oh !  oh  !  I  was  not  taking  care. 
While  thinking  not  of  harm,  I  watch  my  fair. 
Your  lurking  eye  my  heart  doth  steal  away. 
Stop  thief!  stop  thief!  stop  thief!  I  say. 

CAT.  What  soul-subduing  music!  One  would  willingly  die  while 
listening. 


144  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

MAD.     What  soft  languor  creeps  over  one's  heart! 

MASC.  Do  you  not  find  the  thought  clearly  expressed  in  the  song? 
Stop  thief!  stop  thief.  And  then  as  if  one  suddenly  cried  out  stop,  stop, 
stop,  stop,  stop  thief.  Then  all  at  once,  like  a  person  out  of  breath — stop 
thief! 

MAD.  It  shows  a  knowledge  of  perfect  beauty,  every  part  is  inimitable, 
both  the  words  and  the  air  enchant  me. 

CAT.  I  never  yet  met  with  anything  worthy  of  being  compared 
to  it. 

MASC.     All  I  do  comes  naturally  to  me.    I  do  it  without  study. 

MAD.  Nature  has  treated  you  like  a  fond  mother;  you  are  her  spoiled 
child. 

MASC.     How  do  you  spend  your  time,  ladies? 

CAT.     Oh!  in  doing  nothing  at  all. 

MAD.     Until  now,  we  have  been  in  a  dreadful  dearth  of  amusements. 

MASC.  I  should  be  happy  to  take  you  to  the  play  one  of  these  days, 
if  you  would  permit  me;  the  more  so  as  there  is  a  new  piece  going  to  be 
acted  which  I  should  be  glad  to  see  in  your  company. 

MAD.     There  is  no  refusing  such  an  offer. 

MASC.  But  I  must  beg  of  you  to  applaud  it  well  when  we  are  there, 
for  I  have  promised  my  help  to  praise  up  the  piece;  and  the  author  came 
to  me  again  this  morning  to  beg  my  assistance.  It  is  the  custom  for 
authors  to  come  and  read  their  new  plays  to  us  people  of  rank,  so  that 
they  may  persuade  us  to  approve  their  work,  and  to  give  them  a  reputa- 
tion. I  leave  you  to  imagine,  if,  when  we  say  anything,  the  pit  dare 
contradict  us.  As  for  me,  I  am  most  scrupulous,  and  when  once  I  have 
promised  my  assistance  to  a  poet  I  always  call  out  "splendid!  beautiful! " 
even  before  the  candles  are  lighted. 

MAD.  Do  not  speak  of  it;  Paris  is  a  most  wonderful  place;  a  hundred 
things  happen  every  day  there  of  which  country-people,  however  clever 
they  may  be,  have  no  idea. 

CAT.  It  is  sufficient;  now  we  understand  this,  we  shall  consider  our- 
selves under  the  obligation  of  praising  all  that  is  said. 

MASC.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  mistaken;  but  you  seem  to  me 
to  have  written  some  play  yourselves. 

MAD.     Ah!  there  may  be  some  truth  in  what  you  say. 

MASC.  Upon  my  word,  we  must  see  it.  Between  ourselves  I  have 
composed  one  which  I  intend  shortly  to  bring  out. 

CAT.     Indeed;  and  to  what  actors  do  you  mean  to  give  it? 

MASC.  What  a  question!  Why,  to  the  actors  of  the  H6tel  de  Bour- 
gogne  of  course;  they  alone  can  give  a  proper  value  to  a  piece.  The  others 
are  a  pack  of  ignoramuses,  who  recite  their  parts  just  as  one  speaks  every 
day  of  one's  life;  they  have  no  idea  of  thundering  out  verses,  or  of  paus- 
ing at  a  fine  passage.  How  can  one  make  out  where  the  fine  lines  are 
if  the  actor  does  not  stop  at  them,  and  thus  tell  you  when  you  are  to 
applaud? 

CAT.  Certainly,  there  is  always  a  way  of  making  an  audience  feel 
the  beauties  of  a  play;  and  things  are  valued  according  to  the  way  they 
are  put  before  you. 

MASC.  How  do  you  like  my  lace,  feathers,  and  et  ceteras?  Do  you 
find  any  incongruity  between  them  and  my  coat? 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH       145 

CAT.     Not  the  slightest. 

MASC.     The  ribbon  is  well-chosen,  you  think? 

MAD.     Astonishingly  well.    It  is  real  Perdrigeon.* 

MASC.     What  do  you  say  of  my  canions? 

MAD.     They  look  very  fashionable. 

MASC.  I  can  at  least  boast  that  they  are  a  whole  quarter  of  a  yard 
wider  than  those  usually  worn. 

MAD.  I  must  acknowledge  that  I  have  never  yet  seen  the  elegance 
of  the  adjustment  carried  to  such  perfection. 

MASC.  May  I  beg  of  you  to  direct  your  olfactory  senses  to  these 
gloves? 

MAD.     They  smell  terribly  sweet. 

CAT.     I  never  inhaled  a  better  made  perfume. 

MASC.  And  this?  (He  bends  fonvard  for  them  to  smell  his  powdered 
wig.) 

MAD.  It  has  the  true  aristocratic  odour.  One's  finest  senses  are 
exquisitely  dfTected  by  it. 

MASC.     You  say  nothing  of  my  plumes!    What  do  you  think  of  them? 

CAT.     Astonishingly  beautiful! 

MASC.  Do  you  know  that  every  tip  cost  me  a  louis  d'or?  It  is  my  way 
to  prefer  indiscriminately  everything  of  the  best. 

MAD.  I  assure  you  that  I  greatly  sympathise  with  you.  I  am  fu- 
riouslyf  delicate  about  everything  I  wear,  and  even  my  socksj  must 
come  from  the  best  hands. 

MASC.  (crying  out  suddenly).  O!  O!  O!  gently,  gently  ladies;  ladies, 
this  is  unkind,  I  have  good  reason  to  complain  of  your  behaviour;  it  is 
not  fair. 

CAT.     What  is  it?    What  is  the  matter? 

MASC.  Matter?  What,  both  of  you  against  my  heart,  and  at  the 
same  time  too!  attacking  me  right  and  left!  ah!  it  is  contrary  to  fair 
play;  I  shall  cry  out  murder. 

CAT.  (to  MADELON).  It  must  be  acknowledged  that  he  says  things 
in  a  manner  altogether  his  own. 

MAD.     His  way  of  putting  things  is  exquisitely  admirable. 

CAT.  (to  MASCARILLE).  You  are  more  afraid  than  hurt,  and  your 
heart  cries  out  before  it  is  touched. 

MASC.     The  deuce!  why  it  is  sore  from  head  to  foot. 

SCENE  XI. — CATHOS,  MADELON,  MASCARILLE,  MAROTTE 

MAR.  Madam,  somebody  wants  to  see  you. 

MAD.  Who  is  it? 

MAR.  The  Viscount  de  Jodelet. 

MASC.  The  Viscount  de  Jodelet! 

MAR.  Yes,  sir. 

CAT.  Do  you  know  him? 

MASC.  He  is  my  very  best  friend. 

•  A  famous  draper. 

1  lie  is  furiously  gentle;  I  love  you  horribly;  It  is  greatly  snull;  lie  is  terribly  happy,  etc.. 
etc.,  expressions  very  dear  to  the  "Prfcieuse." 

I  Ctousscttes:  linen  socks  worn  underneath  the  ordinary  stockings  of  cloth  or  silk. 


146  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

MAD.     Make  him  come  in  at  once. 

MASC.     It  is  now  some  time  since  we  saw  each  other,  and  I  am  de- 
lighted at  this  accidental  meeting. 
CAT.     Here  he  is. 

SCENE  XII. — CATHOS,  MADELON,  JODELET,  MASCARILLE,  MAROTTE, 
ALMANZOR 

MASC.     Ah!  Viscount! 

JOD.     Ah!  Marquis!  (They  embrace  each  other.) 

MASC.     How  pleased  I  am  to  see  you! 

JOD.     How  delighted  I  am  to  meet  you  here! 

MASC.     Ah!  embrace  me  again,  I  pray  you. 

MAD.  (to  CATHOS).  We  are  on  the  road  to  be  known,  my  dear;  people 
of  fashion  are  beginning  to  find  the  way  to  our  house. 

MASC.  Ladies,  allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  this  gentleman;  upon 
my  word  of  honor,  he  is  worthy  of  your  acquaintance. 

JOD.  It  is  but  right  we  should  come  and  pay  you  the  respect  that 
we  owe  you;  and  your  queenly  charms  demand  the  humble  homage  of  all. 

MAD.     This  is  carrying  your  civilities  to  the  extreme  bounds  of  flattery. 

CAT.     We  shall  have  to  mark  this  day  in  our  diary  as  a  very  happy  one. 

MAD.  (to  ALMANZOR).  Come,  thoughtless  Juvenal,  must  you  ever- 
lastingly be  told  the  same  things.  Do  you  not  see  that  the  addition  of 
another  arm-chair  is  necessary? 

MASC.  Do  not  wonder  if  you  see  the  Viscount  thus;  he  has  just 
recovered  from  an  illness  which  has  left  him  pale  as  you  see  him. 

JOD.  It  is  the  result  of  constant  attendance  at  court,  and  of  the 
fatigues  of  war. 

MASC.  Do  you  know,  ladies,  that  you  behold  in  Viscount  Jodelet  one 
of  the  bravest  men  of  the  age — a  perfect  hero. 

JOD.  You  are  not  behind  in  this  respect,  marquis,  and  we  know  what 
you  can  do. 

MASC.     It  is  true  that  we  have  seen  each  other  in  the  field. 

JOD.     And  in  places  too  where  it  was  warm  indeed. 

MASC.  (looking  at  CATHOS  and  MADELOX).  Ay,  ay,  but  not  so  warm 
as  it  is  here!  Ha,  ha,  ha! 

JOD.  Our  acquaintance  began  in  the  army;  the  first  time  we  met  he 
commanded  a  regiment  of  horse  on  board  the  galleys  of  Malta. 

MASC.  It  is  true;  but  you  were  in  the  service  before  me,  and  I  re- 
member that  I  was  but  a  subaltern  when  you  commanded  two  thousand 
horse. 

JOD.  War  is  a  grand  thing.  But  s'death!  now-a-days  the  court  re- 
wards very  badly  men  of  merit  like  us. 

MASC.  Yes,  yes,  there's  no  doubt  about  it;  and  I  intend  to  let  my 
sword  rest  in  its  scabbard. 

CAT.     For  my  part  I  am  unutterably  fond  of  men  of  the  army. 

MAD.     And  so  am  I,  but  I  like  to  see  wit  season  bravery. 

MASC.  Do  you  remember,  Viscount,  our  carrying  that  half-moon 
at  Arras? 

JOD.     What  do  you  mean  by  "half-moon,"*  it  was  a  complete  full  one. 

•  ll'ill-mnnn  is  a  military  term.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  there  is  no  "full- 
moon"  in  fortification. 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH       147 

MASC.     Yes,  I  believe  you  are  right. 

JOD.  I  ought  to  remember  it,  I  was  wounded  then  in  the  leg  by  a 
hand-grenade,  and  I  still  bear  the  scars.  Just  feel  here,  I  pray:  you  can 
realize  what  a  wound  it  was. 

CAT.  (after  hating  felt  the  place).  It  is  true  that  the  scar  is  very 
large. 

MASC.  Give  me  your  hand,  and  feel  this  one,  just  here  at  the  back 
of  my  head!  Have  you  found  it? 

MAD.     Yes,  I  feel  something. 

MASC.     It  is  a  musket-shot  I  received  the  last  campaign  I  made. 

JOD.  (uncovering  his  breast.)  Here  is  another  wound  which  went 
quite  through  me  at  the  battle  of  Gravelines. 

MASC.  (about  to  unbutton.)  And  I  will  show  you  a  terrible  scar 
which  .  .  . 

MAD.     Pray  do  not,  we  believe  you  without  seeing. 

MASC.  They  are  honourable  marks,  which  tell  the  stuff  a  man  is 
made  of. 

CAT.     We  have  no  doubt  whatever  of  your  valour. 

MASC.    Viscount,  is  your  carriage  waiting? 

JOD.     Why? 

MASC.  Because  we  would  have  taken  these  ladies  for  a  drive,  and 
have  given  them  a  collation. 

MAD.    Thank  you,  but  we  could  not  have  gone  out  to-day. 

MASC.     Very  well,  then,  let  us  send  for  musicians  and  have  a  dance. 

JOD.     A  happy  thought  upon  my  word. 

MAD.  We  can  consent  to  that:  but  we  must  make  some  addition 
to  our  company. 

MASC.  Hallo  there!  Champagne,  Picard,  Bourguignon,  Cascaret, 
Basque,  La  Verdure,  Lorrain,  Provencal,  La  Violette!  Deuce  take  all 
the  lackeys!  I  don't  believe  there  is  a  man  in  all  France  worse  served 
than  I  am.  The  villains  are  always  out  of  the  way  when  they  are  wanted. 

MAD.  Almanzor,  tell  the  servants  of  the  Marquis  to  go  and  fetch  some 
musicians,  and  then  ask  those  gentlemen  and  ladies  who  live  close  by 
to  come  and  people  the  solitude  of  our  ball.  (Exit  ALMANZOR.) 

MASC.     Viscount,  what  do  you  say  of  those  eyes? 

JOD.     And  you,  marquis,  what  do  you  think  of  them  yourself. 

MASC.  I?  I  say  that  our  liberty  will  have  some  trouble  in  coming 
off  scathless.  At  least  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  feel  an  unaccustomed 
agitation,  and  my  heart  hangs  as  by  a  single  thread. 

MAD.  How  natural  is  all  that  he  says!  He  gives  to  everything  a 
most  pleasing  turn. 

CAT.     His  expenditure  of  wit  is  really  tremendous. 

MASC.  To  show  you  the  truth  of  what  I  say,  I  will  make  some  ex- 
tempore verses  upon  the  state  of  my  feelings. 

CAT.  Oh!  I  beseech  you  by  all  the  devotion  of  my  heart  to  let  us 
hear  something  made  expressly  for  us. 

JOD.  I  should  delight  to  do  as  much,  but  the  quantity  of  blood  I 
have  lately  lost  has  rather  weakened  my  poetic  vein. 

MASC.  Deuce  take  it  all!  I  can  always  make  the  first  verse  to  my 
satisfaction,  but  feel  perplexed  about  the  rest.  After  all,  you  know,  this 
is  being  a  little  too  much  in  a  hurry.  I  will  take  my  own  time  to  make 


148  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

you  some  extempore  verses,  which  you  will  find  the  most  beautiful  in 
the  world. 

JOD.  (to  MADELON).    His  wit  is  devilish  fine! 

MAD.     Gallant,  and  neatly  turned. 

MASC.     Viscount,  tell  me,  have  you  seen  the  countess  lately? 

JOD.     It  is  about  three  weeks  since  I  paid  her  a  visit. 

MASC.  Do  you  know  that  the  duke  came  to  see  me  this  morning,  and 
wanted  to  take  me  out  into  the  country  to  hunt  a  stag  with  him? 

MAD.     Here  come  our  friends. 

SCENE  XIII. — LUCILE,  CELIMENE,  CATHOS,  MADELON,  MASCARILLE, 
JODELET,  MAROTTE,  ALMANZOR,  MUSICIANS 

MAD.  My  dears,  we  beg  you  will  excuse  us.  These  gentlemen  had 
a  fancy  for  the  soul  of  motion,*  and  we  sent  for  you  to  fill  up  the  void 
of  our  assembly. 

Luc.     You  are  very  kind. 

MASC.  This  is  only  a  ball  got  up  in  haste,  but  one  of  these  days  we 
will  have  one  in  due  form.  Have  the  musicians  come? 

ALM.     Yes,  sir,  here  they  are. 

CAT.     Come  then,  my  dears,  take  your  places. 

MASC.  (dancing  alone  by  way  of  prelude).     La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la. 

MAD.     He  has  a  most  elegant  figure. 

CAT.     And  seems  a  proper  dancer. 

MASC.  (taking  out  MADELON  to  dance).  The  liberty  of  my  heart  will 
dance  a  couranto  as  well  as  my  feet.  Play  in  time,  musicians.  O!  what 
ignorant  fellows!  There  is  no  possibility  of  dancing  with  them.  Devil 
take  you,  can't  you  play  in  time?  La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la.  Steady, 
you  village  scrapers. 

JOD.  (dancing  in  his  turn).  Gently,  don't  play  so  fast,  I  have  only 
just  recovered  from  an  illness. 

(Enter  Du  CROISY  and  LA  GRANGE.) 

SCENE  XIV. — Du  CROISY,  LA  GRANGE,  CATHOS,  MADELON,  LUCILE, 
CELIMENE,  JODELET,  MASCARILLE,  MAROTTE,  MUSICIANS 

LA  GRA.  (a  stick  in  his  hand).  Ah!  scoundrels,  what  are  you  doing 
here?  We  have  been  looking  for  you  these  three  hours. 

(He  beats  MASCARILLE  and  JODELET.) 
MASC.     Oh !  oh !  oh !    You  never  said  anything  about  blows. 
JOD.     Oh!  oh!  oh! 

LA  GRA.     It  becomes  you  well,  you  rascal,  to  ape  the  man  of  rank. 
Du  CRO.     This  will  teach  you  to  know  your  position. 

(Exeunt  Du  CROISY  and  LA  GRANGE.) 

SCENE   XV. — CATHOS,   MADELON,   LUCILE,   CELIMENE,   MASCARILLE, 
JODELET,  MAROTTE,  MUSICIANS 

MAD.     What  does  this  all  mean? 
JOD.     It  is  a  wager. 

CAT.     What!  to  suffer  yourselves  to  be  beaten  in  that  fashion! 
*  Violins  are  meant. 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH       149 

MASC.  Yes,  I  would  not  take  any  notice  of  it,  I  have  a  violent  temper, 
and  I  should  not  have  been  able  to  command  it. 

MAD.     Such  an  insult  in  our  presence! 

MASC.  Not  worth  mentioning,  we  have  known  each  other  for  a 
long  while  now;  and  among  friends  we  must  not  take  offence  at  such 
trifles.  (Re-enter  Du  CROISY  and  LA  GRANGE.) 

SCENE  XVI. — Du  CROISY,  LA  GRANGE,  MADELON,  CATHOS,  CELIUENE, 
LUCILE,  MASCARILLE,  JODELET,  MAROTTE,  MUSICIANS 

LA  GRA.  Ah!  you  rascals,  you  shall  not  laugh  at  us,  I  assure  you. 
Come  in,  you  there.  (Three  or  four  men  enter.) 

MAD.     What  do  you  mean  by  coming  to  disturb  us  in  our  own  house? 

Du  CRO.  What  ladies!  shall  we  suffer  our  servants  to  be  better  re- 
ceived than  we  were?  shall  we  allow  them  to  come  and  make  love  to  you 
at  our  expense,  and  to  give  you  a  ball? 

MAD.     Your  servants! 

LA  GRA.  Yes,  our  servants;  and  it  is  neither  proper  nor  honest  in 
you  to  entice  them  away  from  their  duty  as  you  have  done. 

MAD.     Heavens!    What  insolence! 

LA  GRA.  But  they  shall  not  have  the  advantage  of  wearing  our 
clothes  to  dazzle  your  eyes,  and  if  you  wish  to  love  them,  it  shall  be 
for  their  good  looks.  Quick,  you  fellows,  strip  them  at  once. 

JOD.     Farewell  our  finery. 

MASC.     Farewell,  marquisate;  farewell,  viscountship! 

Du  CRO.  Ah!  ah!  rascals,  have  you  the  impudence  to  wish  to  cut  us 
out?  You  will  have  to  find  elsewhere,  I  can  tell  you,  wherewith  to  make 
yourselves  agreeable  to  your  lady-loves. 

LA  GRA.  To  supplant  us;  and  that,  too,  in  our  own  clothes.  It  is 
too  much ! 

MASC.     O  Fortune,  how  inconstant  thou  art! 

Du  CRO.     Quick,  I  say,  strip  off  everything  that  belongs  to  us. 

LA  GRA.  Take  away  all  the  clothes;  quick!  Now,  ladies,  in  their 
present  condition,  you  may  make  love  to  them  as  much  as  you  please. 
We  leave  you  entirely  free  to  act.  This  gentleman  and  I  assure  you  that 
we  shall  be  in  no  way  jealous. 

SCENE  XVII. — MADELON,  CATHOS,  JODELET,  MASCARILLE,  MUSICIANS 

CAT.     Ah!  what  humiliation. 
MAD.     I  am  nearly  dying  with  vexation. 

IST  Mus.  (to  MASCARILLE).  And  what  does  all  this  mean?  Who 
is  to  pay  us? 

MASC.     Ask  my  lord  the  Viscount. 

2ND  Mus.  (to  JODELET).     Who  is  to  give  us  our  money? 

JOD.     Ask  my  lord  the  Marquis.  (Enter  GORGIBUS.) 

SCENE  XVIII. — GORGIBUS,  MADELON,  CATHOS;  JODELET,  MASCARILLE; 
MUSICIANS 

GOR.  (to  MADELON  and  CATHOS).  From  all  I  hear  and  see  you  have 
got  us  into  a  nice  mess;  the  gentlemen  and  ladies  who  have  just  left  have 
given  me  a  fine  account  of  your  doings! 


150  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

MAD.     Ah!  my  father,  it  is  a  most  cruel  trick  they  have  played  us. 

GOR.  Yes,  it  is  a  cruel  trick,  no  doubt,  but  one  which  results  from 
your  folly — miserable  simpletons  that  you  are.  They  felt  insulted  by 
your  way  of  receiving  them;  and  I,  wretched  man,  must  swallow  the 
affront  as  best  I  may. 

MAD.  Ah !  I  will  be  revenged  or  die  in  the  attempt.  And  you,  wretches ! 
dare  you  stop  here  after  all  your  insolence? 

MASC.  To  treat  a  marquis  in  this  manner!  Yes,  that's  the  way  of 
the  world;  we  are  spurned  by  those  who  till  lately  cherished  us.  Come 
along,  come  along,  my  friend,  let  us  go  and  seek  our  fortunes  elsewhere, 
I  see  that  nothing  but  outward  show  pleases  here,  and  that  they  have 
no  consideration  for  virtue  unadorned. 

(Exeunt  MASCARILLE  and  JODELET.) 

SCENE  XIX. — GORGIBUS,  MADELON,  CATHOS,  MUSICIANS 

IST  Mus.  Sir,  we  shall  expect  you  to  pay  us,  since  they  do  not;  for 
it  was  here  we  played. 

GOR.  (beating  them).  Yes,  yes,  I  will  pay  you,  and  here  is  the  coin 
you  shall  receive.  As  for  you,  stupid,  foolish  girls,  I  don't  know  what 
keeps  me  from  giving  you  as  much.  We  shall  become  the  laughing-stock 
of  the  whole  neighbourhood;  this  is  the  result  of  all  your  ridiculous 
nonsense.  Go,  hide  yourselves,  idiots;  hide  yourselves  for  ever  (exeunt 
MADELON  and  CATHOS);  and  you  the  cause  of  all  their  folly,  worthless 
trash,  mischievous  pastimes  of  vacant  minds,  romances,  verses,  songs, 
sonnets,  lays  and  lies,  may  the  devil  take  you  all! 

As  must  have  been  surmised,  the  prevailing  tone  of  all  the 
literary  production  of  the  early  part  of  the  seventeenth 
century  was  romantic,  often  to  the  verge  of  sentimentality, 
the  result  of  reaction  from  the  turbulence  of  the  preceding 
century  united  with  a  leaning  toward  Italian  models  made 
fashionable  by  Marie  de  Medici.  Its  every  form,  however, 
was  marked  by  an  accuracy  of  workmanship  which  was  to 
show  itself  increasingly  as  the  decades  went  on,  until  verse, 
drama  and  oratory  all  displayed  a  finish  appropriate  to  the 
model  set  them  by  the  punctilious  court  of  Louis  XIV.  Even 
a  poet  as  irregular  as  versatile,  long-nosed  CYRANO  DE  BER- 
GERAC  (1619-1655) — revealed  to  us  in  the  edge  of  the 
twentieth  century — was  capable  of  feats  of  verse-making 
dexterity  as  wonderful  as  that  described  by  Rostand  who 
makes  his  hero  compose  a  ballade,  accurate  in  form,  at  the 
same  time  that  he  fought  a  duel.  De  Bergerac  stands  alone 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   151 

among  literary  men  as  a  defender  of  Mazarin.  His  fancy  was 
delightful  and  his  prose  clear  and  correct.  Here  is  his  ac- 
count of  an 

EXPERIENCE  IN  AERONAUTICS 

I  had  fastened  about  me  a  number  of  phials  filled  with  dew  on  which 
the  Sun  shone  so  warmly  that  its  heat  which  attracted  them  as  it  does 
the  largest  clouds,  raised  me  so  high,  that  at  last  I  found  myself  above 
the  medium  region.  But  as  this  attraction  caused  me  to  rise  with  too 
great  speed,  and  as,  instead  of  nearing  the  Moon  as  I  expected,  she  seemed 
to  me  farther  away  than  at  my  departure,  I  broke  several  of  my  phials 
until  I  thought  that  my  weight  overcame  the  attraction  and  that  I  was 
descending  again  towards  the  earth.  My  opinion  was  correct,  for  I  fell 
upon  it  a  short  time  afterwards,  and  judging  by  the  time  when  I  left, 
it  must  have  been  midnight.  However,  I  saw  that  the  Sun  was  at  its 
highest  point  above  the  horizon  and  that  it  was  noon.  I  leave  you  to 
imagine  my  surprise.  I  was  so  thoroughly  amazed  that,  not  knowing 
to  what  to  attribute  this  miracle,  I  had  the  insolence  to  imagine  that  to 
favor  my  boldness  God  had  once  more  fastened  the  Sun  in  the  heavens 
that  it  might  shed  light  upon  so  generous  an  enterprise.  What  increased 
my  surprise  was  that  I  did  not  recognize  the  place  where  I  was,  for  it 
seemed  to  me  that  having  gone  straight  up  I  ought  to  have  alighted  on 
the  same  spot  from  which  I  had  set  out.  However,  equipped  as  I  was, 
I  walked  toward  a  sort  of  hut  whose  smoke  I  saw  and  I  was  hardly  a  pistol 
shot  from  it  when  I  saw  myself  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  naked  men. 
They  seemed  greatly  surprised  at  seeing  me,  for  I  suppose  I  was  the 
first  man  they  ever  had  seen  dressed  in  bottles.  And  still  further  to 
overset  whatever  interpretations  they  might  have  put  upon  this  equip- 
ment, they  saw  that  I  scarcely  touched  the  ground  as  I  walked.  They 
did  not  know  that  at  the  smallest  movement  of  my  body  the  warmth  of 
the  noonday  rays  lifted  me  with  my  dew,  and  that,  had  it  not  been  that 
my  phials  were  no  longer  numerous  I  might  have  been  raised  in  the  air 
before  their  very  eyes.  I  wanted  to  approach  them,  but  as  if  fright  had 
changed  them  into  birds  they  were  lost  in  an  instant  in  the  neighboring 
forest.  However  I  caught  one  whose  legs  had  played  the  traitor  to  his 
courage.  I  asked  him  with  some  difficulty  (for  I  was  almost  choked) 
how  far  it  was  to  Paris  and  since  when  people  had  been  going  about 
France  naked  and  why  they  fled  from  me  with  such  terror.  The  man 
I  addressed  was  an  olive-skinned  old  fellow  who  at  first  flung  himself 
at  my  knees  and  clasping  his  hands  in  the  air  behind  his  head  opened 


152  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

his  mouth  and  closed  his  eyes.  He  muttered  for  a  long  time  between  his 
teeth  but  I  did  not  discern  any  articulation,  so  that  I  considered  his 
speech  as  the  hoarse  chattering  of  a  mute. 

A  little  while  later  I  saw  a  company  of  soldiers  come  up,  their  drum 
beating,  and  I  noticed  two  separating  themselves  from  the  main  body 
to  investigate  me.  When  they  were  near  enough  to  hear  I  asked  them 
where  I  was.  "You  are  in  France,"  they  answered  me,  "but  what  the 
mischief  has  put  you  in  such  a  state  as  this?  And  how  does  it  happen 
that  we  do  not  recognize  you?  Have  the  vessels  come?  Are  you  going 
to  report  to  the  Governor?  And  why  have  you  put  your  brandy  into 
so  many  bottles?"  To  all  that  I  replied  that  there  wasn't  any  mischief 
about  it;  that  they  did  not  recognize  me  because  they  could  not  know 
everybody;  that  I  did  not  know  that  the  Seine  floated  large  ships  as  far 
as  Paris;  that  I  had  no  report  to  make  to  Marshall  de  1'  H6pital;  and  that 
I  was  not  loaded  with  brandy.  "Ho,  ho,"  they  said,  taking  me  by  the 
arm,  "you're  playing  the  jester,  are  you?  The  Governor  shall  make 
your  acquaintance."  They  led  me  toward  the  troop  where  I  learned 
that  I  really  was  in  France,  but  in  New  France,  and  a  little  while  later 
I  was  presented  to  the  Viceroy,  who  asked  me  my  country,  my  name  and 
my  rank;  and  after  I  had  satisfied  him,  telling  him  the  pleasant  outcome 
of  my  trip,  whether  he  really  believed  me  or  pretended  to,  he  was  kind 
enough  to  give  me  a  room  in  his  apartment.  My  happiness  was  great 
at  meeting  a  man  capable  of  breadth  of  view,  who  was  not  surprised 
when  I  told  him  that  it  must  have  been  that  the  earth  had  rotated  dur- 
ing my  ascent,  since,  having  begun  to  rise  when  two  leagues  from  Paris, 
I  had  fallen,  in  an  almost  perpendicular  line,  into  Canada. 

In  addition  to  De  Bergerac  there  were  few  poets  worthy  of 
mention  in  the  early  years  except  Malherbe  and  his  contem- 
poraries who  bridged  the  century.  The  literary  atmosphere 
of  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet,  however,  encouraged  many 
poets  who  stand  out  even  from  the  multitude  of  verse-makers 
who  expressed  much  high-flown  sentiment  in  "precious" 
language.  A  new  sonnet  was  an  affair  of  importance  at  the 
salon,  and  when  two  of  almost  equal  merit  appeared  it  was 
the  occasion  of  much  factional  excitement.  Such  was  the 
case  when  VINCENT  VOITURE  (1598-1648)  wrote  his  sonnet 
to  "Uranie"  and  ISAAC  DE  BENSERADE  (1613-1691)  his 
"Job."  Here  they  are  for  comparison. 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH       153 
URANIE 

(Translated  by  Walter  Besant) 

It  rests,  to  end  with  love  of  Uranie, 

Absence  nor  time  may  cure  me  of  this  pain; 

Nothing  to  help,  nothing  to  ease,  I  see, 
Nothing  to  win  my  liberty  again. 

Long  time  I  know  her  rigor,  but  I  think 

Still  on  her  beauty — wherefore  I  must  die — , 

Content  I  fall,  blessing  my  doom  I  sink, 
Nor  aught  against  her  tyrant  rigor  cry, 

But  sometimes  Reason  feebly  lifts  her  voice, 
Bids  me  throw  off  this  thraldom,  and  rejoice; 

Then  when  I  listen,  and  her  aid  would  prove, 
After  all  efforts  spent,  in  mere  despair, 
She  says  that  Uranie  alone  is  fair, 

And,  more  than  all  my  senses,  bids  me  love. 

JOB 

(Translated  by  Walter  Besant) 

Job,  with  a  thousand  troubles  cursed, 
Here  shows  you  what  his  troubles  were, 

And  as  he  goes  from  worse  to  worst, 
Asks  for  your  sympathetic  tear. 

Behold  his  story,  simple,  plain, 

Told  by  himself  for  your  fair  eyes; 
And  steel  your  heart  to  watch  the  pain 

Of  one  who  suffers,  one  who  sighs. 

Yet  think — although  he  suffered  much, 
His  troubles  great,  his  patience  such — 

That  some  may  still  more  patient  be; 
To  all  the  listening  world  he  groaned, 
His  pains  to  every  friend  bemoaned; 

I,  silent,  suffer  more  than  he. 

Voiture  and  Benserade  counted  among  their  fellows  JEAN 
REGNAULD  DE  SEGRAIS  (1624-1701),  a  man  of  many  talents, 
less  remembered  now  for  his  verse  than  for  his  memoirs 


154  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

which  give  a  thoroughly  conversant  account  of  the  society 
of  the  century,  and  for  his  work  with  Mademoiselle  de  Mont- 
pensier  and  Madame  de  la  Fayette  in  the  authorship  of 
their  romances. 

An  unexpected  figure  among  these  elegants  was  PAUL 
SCARRON  (1610-1660),  poor  and  a  cripple,  who  is  known  not 
only  for  his  own  work  but  as  the  husband  of  Francoise 
d'Aubigne,  later  Madame  de  Main  tenon  and  secretly  married 
to  Louis  XIV.  Scarron  wrote  a  burlesque  "^Eneid"  and  a 
"Comic  Romance,"  keen  satires,  and  a  collection  of  stories 
which  served  later  as  a  treasure  house  of  plots  for  later 
writers.  His  powers  of  observation  were  most  acute,  as  will 
be  seen  in  this  compact  description  of 

PARIS 

(Translated  by  Walter  Besant) 

Houses  in  labyrinthine  maze; 

The  streets  with  mud  bespattered  all; 
Palace  and  prison,  churches,  quays, 

Here  stately  shop,  there  shabby  stall. 
Passengers  black,  red,  gray  and  white, 
The  pursed-up  prude,  the  light  coquette; 

Murder  and  Treason  dark  as  night; 

With  clerks,  their  hands  with  ink-stains  wet; 
A  gold-laced  coat  without  a  sou, 

And  trembling  at  a  bailiff's  sight; 
A  braggart  shivering  with  fear; 

Pages  and  lacqueys,  thieves  of  night; 
And  'mid  the  tumult,  noise  and  stink  of  it, 

There's  Paris — pray,  what  do  you  think  of  it? 

As  the  life  of  the  seventeenth  century  grew  more  and  more 
stately,  its  thought  became  correspondingly  serious,  and  its 
expression  increasingly  perfect.  "Preciosity"  waned;  love 
of  the  classic  grew.  The  middle  years  were  marked  by  a 
decided  change. 

Boileau    (NICHOLAS     BOILEAU-DESPR£AUX,     1636-1711) 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH       155 

was  a  man  whose  many  activities  place  him  in  many  classes. 
In  all  he  was  great — as  literary  critic,  philosopher,  satirist, 
letter  writer,  and  poet.  His  comments  on  his  predecessors 
and  contemporaries  in  the  field  of  literature  are  always  inter- 
esting, though  apt  to  be  more  caustic  than  modern  judgments. 
His  verses  addressed  "To  Moliere"  are  more  about  himself 
than  about  the  great  dramatist,  but  they  give  a  concrete 
instance  of  the  rules  that  he  laid  down  in  his  discussion  of  the 
"Art  of  Poetry." 

TO  MOLIERE 
(From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature") 

Unequaled  genius,  whose  warm  fancy  knows 
No  rhyming  labor,  no  poetic  throes; 
To  whom  Apollo  has  unlocked  his  store; 
Whose  coin  is  struck  from  pure  Parnassian  ore; 
Thou,  dextrous  master,  teach  thy  skill  to  me, 
And  tell  me,  MoliSre,  how  to  rhyme  like  thee! 

You  never  falter  when  the  close  comes  round, 

Or  leave  the  substance  to  preserve  the  sound; 

You  never  wander  after  words  that  fly, 

For  all  the  words  you  need  before  you  lie. 

But  I,  who — smarting  for  my  sins  of  late — 

With  itch  of  rhyme  am  visited  by  fate, 

Expend  on  air  my  unavailing  force, 

And,  hunting  sounds,  am  sweated  like  a  horse. 

In  vain  I  often  muse  from  dawn  till  night: 

When  I  mean  black,  my  stubborn  verse  says  white; 

If  I  should  paint  a  coxcomb's  flippant  mien, 

I  scarcely  can  forbear  to  name  the  Dean; 

If  asked  to  tell  the  strains  that  purest  flow, 

My  heart  says  Virgil,  but  my  pen  Quinault; 

In  short,  whatever  I  attempt  to  say, 

Mischance  conducts  me  quite  the  other  way. 

At  times,  fatigued  and  fretted  with  the  pain, 
When  every  effort  for  relief  is  vain, 
The  fruitless  chase  I  peevishly  give  o'er, 
And  swear  a  thousand  times  to  write  no  more: 


156  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

But,  after  thousand  vows,  perhaps  by  chance, 
Before  my  careless  eyes  the  couplets  dance. 
Then  with  new  force  my  flame  bursts  out  again, 
Pleased  I  resume  the  paper  and  the  pen; 
And,  all  my  anger  and  my  oaths  forgot, 
I  calmly  muse  and  resolutely  blot. 

Yet,  if  my  eager  hand,  in  haste  to  rhyme, 
Should  tack  an  empty  couplet  at  a  time, 
Great  names  who  do  the  same  I  might  adduce; 
Nay,  some  who  keep  such  hirelings  for  their  use. 
Need  blooming  Phyllis  be  described  in  prose 
By  any  lover  who  has  seen  a  rose  ? 
Who  can  forget  heaven's  masterpiece,  her  eye, 
Where,  within  call,  the  Loves  and  Graces  lie? 
Who  can  forget  her  smile,  devoid  of  art, 
Her  heavenly  sweetness  and  her  frozen  heart? 
How  easy  thus  forever  to  compound, 
And  ring  new  changes  on  recurring  sound; 
How  easy,  with  a  reasonable  store 
Of  useful  epithets  repeated  o'er, 
Verb,  substantive,  and  pronoun,  to  transpose, 
And  into  tinkling  metre  hitch  dull  prose. 
But  I — who  tremble  o'er  each  word  I  use, 
And  all  that  do  not  aid  the  sense  refuse, 
Who  cannot  bear  those  phrases  out  of  place 
Which  rhymers  stuff  into  a  vacant  space — 
Ponder  my  scrupulous  verses  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  when  I  write  five  words,  oft  blot  out  four. 

Plague  on  the  fool  who  taught  us  to  confine 
The  swelling  thought  within  a  measured  line; 
Who  first  in  narrow  thraldom  fancy  pent, 
And  chained  in  rhyme  each  pinioned  sentiment. 
Without  this  toil,  contentment's  soothing  balm 
Might  lull  my  languid  soul  in  listless  calm: 
Like  the  smooth  prebend  how  might  I  recline, 
And  loiter  life  in  mirth  and  song  and  wine! 
Roused  by  no  labor,  with  no  care  opprest, 
Pass  all  my  nights  in  sleep,  my  days  in  rest. 
My  passions  and  desires  obey  the  rein; 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   157 

No  mad  ambition  fires  my  temperate  vein; 
The  schemes  of  busy  greatness  I  decline, 
Nor  kneel  in  palaces  at  Fortune's  shrine. 
In  short,  my  life  had  been  supremely  blest 
If  envious  rhyme  had  not  disturbed  my  rest: 
But  since  this  freakish  fiend  began  to  roll 
His  idle  vapors  o'er  my  troubled  soul, 
Since  first  I  longed  in  polished  verse  to  please, 
And  wrote  with  labor  to  be  read  with  ease, 
Nailed  to  my  chair,  day  after  day  I  pore 
On  what  I  write  and  what  I  wrote  before; 
Retouch  each  line,  each  epithet  review, 
Or  burn  the  paper  and  begin  anew. 
While  thus  my  labors  lengthen  into  years, 
I  envy  all  the  race  of  sonneteers. 

To  you,  who  know  how  justly  I  complain, 
To  you  I  turn  for  medicine  to  my  pain! 
Grant  me  your  talent,  and  impart  your  store, 
Or  teach  me,  Moliere,  how  to  rhyme  no  more. 

JEAN  DE  LA  FONTAINE  (1621-1695)  ends  the  century's  list 
of  poets  pure  and  simple  with  one  of  its  greatest  names.  He 
led  a  somewhat  irregular  life,  glancing  toward  the  church 
and  then  glancing  away,  and  not  fulfilling  in  real  work  the 
promise  of  his  early  years  until  he  was  a  man  of  middle  age. 
His  first  poems  are  graceful  but  not  remarkable.  When 
Fouquet,  who  was  Superintendent  of  Finances  under  Maz- 
arin,  fell  into  disgrace  with  Louis  XIV,  La  Fontaine  wrote  a 
long  poem  on  the  "Nymphs  of  Vaux,"  which  launched  him 
on  the  sea  of  poesy  upon  which  he  adventured  many  other 
poems  of  increasing  merit.  He  is  best  known  by  his  "  Fables  " 
in  imitation  of  ^Esop.  They  are  admirable  from  every  point 
of  view — as  recalling  their  model,  as  satirizing  society,  as 
drawing  lovely  pictures  of  nature — and  their  universal  human 
appeal  puts  them  among  the  ever-living  bits  of  literature. 
The  fable  of  the  over-ambitious  frog  has  been  quoted.  Here 
is  a  laugh  at  another  common  foible. 


158  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

THE  CROW  AND  THE  FOX 

(From  Longfellow's  "Poetry  of  Europe") 

A  master  crow,  perched  on  a  tree  one  day, 

Was  holding  in  his  beak  a  cheese; — 
A  master  fox,  by  the  odor  drawn  that  way, 

Spake  unto  him  in  words  like  these: 

"O,  good  morning,  my  Lord  Crow! 
How  well  you  look!  how  handsome  you  do  grow! 
Ton  my  honor,  if  your  note 
Bears  a  resemblance  to  your  coat, 
You  are  the  phcenix  of  the  dwellers  in  these  woods." 
At  these  words  does  the  crow  exceedingly  rejoice; 
And,  to  display  his  beauteous  voice, 
He  opens  a  wide  beak,  lets  fall  his  stolen  goods. 

The  fox  seized  on't  and  said,  "  My  good  Monsieur, 
Learn  that  every  flatterer 

Lives  at  the  expense  of  him  who  hears  him  out. 
This  lesson  is  well  worth  a  cheese,  no  doubt." 
The  crow,  ashamed,  and  much  in  pain, 
Swore,  but  a  little  late,  they'd  not  catch  him  so  again. 

A  charming  bit  of  allegory  has  been  translated  by  William 
Cullen  Bryant. 

*  LOVE  AND  FOLLY 

Love's  worshippers  alone  can  know 

The  thousand  mysteries  that  are  his; 
His  blazing  torch,  his  twanging  bow, 

His  blooming  age  are  mysteries. 
A  charming  science— but  the  day 

Were  all  too  short  to  con  it  o'er; 
So  take  of  me  this  little  lay 

A  sample  of  its  boundless  lore. 

At  once,  beneath  the  fragrant  shade 
Of  myrtles  breathing  heaven's  own  air, 

The  children,  Love  and  Folly,  played — 
A  quarrel  rose  betwixt  the  pair. 

*  Courtesy  of  D.  Appleton  &  Company. 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   159 

Love  said  the  gods  should  do  him  right — 

But  Folly  vowed  to  do  it  then, 
And  struck  him,  o'er  the  orbs  of  sight, 

So  hard  he  never  saw  again. 

His  lovely  mother's  grief  was  deep, 

She  called  for  vengeance  on  the  deed; 
A  beautjr  does  not  vainly  weep, 

Nor  coldly  does  a  mother  plead. 
A  shade  came  o'er  the  eternal  bliss 

That  fills  the  dwellers  of  the  skies: 
Even  stony-hearted  Nemesis, 

And  Rhadamanthus,  wiped  their  eyes. 

"Behold,"  she  said,  "this  lovely  boy," 

While  streamed  afresh  her  graceful  tears, 
"Immortal,  yet  shut  out  from  joy 

And  sunshine,  all  his  future  years. 
The  child  can  never  take,  you  see, 

A  single  step  without  a  staff — 
The  harshest  punishment  would  be 

Too  lenient  for  the  crime  by  half." 

All  said  that  Love  had  suffered  wrong, 

And  well  that  wrong  should  be  repaid; 
Then  weighed  the  public  interest  long, 

And  long  the  party's  interest  weighed. 
And  thus  decreed  the  court  above — 

"  Since  Love  is  blind  from  Folly's  blow, 
Let  Folly  be  the  guide  of  Love, 

Where'er  the  boy  may  choose  to  go." 

A  tribute  to  one  of  the  world's  greatest  comic  writers  is 
La  Fontaine's 

EPITAPH  ON  MOLIERE 

1673 

Plautus  and  Terence  lie  beneath  this  stone, 
Yet,  strangely,  Moliere  lies  here  alone, 
Their  trinity  of  talents  filled  one  heart 
And  France  rejoiced  in  its  consummate  art. 


160  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

They  all  are  gone,  and  little  hope  is  left 
Of  seeing  them  again;  we  are  bereft 
For  ages  yet  to  come;  when  all  is  said, 
Terence  and  Plautus,  Moliere,  are  dead. 

The  most  outstanding  expression  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury's greatness  was  its  drama.  Here  poet  and  playwright  met 
in  Corneille  and  Racine  and  Moliere.  Their  work  will  be  taken 
up  in  the  next  chapter's  survey  of  French  writing  for  the  stage. 

To  satisfy  the  love  of  reading  which  developed  in  this 
century  among  people  who  had  cared  little  for  it  before, 
romances  came  into  being.  They  were  of  enormous  length 
and  fairly  dripping  with  love,  and  they  achieved  popularity 
not  only  because  they  accorded  with  the  temper  of  the  time, 
but  because  they  furnished  an  especial  diversion  to  women 
who  gave  long  hours  to  embroidery  and  who  liked  to  be  read 
to  as  they  worked.  HONORE  D'URFE'S  (1568-1625)  "  Astree" 
of  the  early  years  was  one  of  these  stories,  an  interminable 
tale  of  the  loves  and  adventures  of  remarkably  well-educated 
shepherds  and  shepherdesses.  The  plot  was  based  on  his  own 
experiences,  for  he  fell  in  love  with  his  brother's  betrothed, 
was  sent  out  of  the  country  by  his  father  to  avoid  complica- 
tions. Later — some  say  it  was  ten  years,  some  twenty — he 
married  the  fair  lady,  but  abandoned  her  promptly  because 
she  was  kinder  to  her  dogs  than  to  him,  and  spent  his  time 
in  celebrating  her  attractions  in  "  Astree." 

Extremely  popular  were  the  plays  and  romances  of  LA 
CALPRENEDE  (died  in  1663)  who  paid  d'Urfe  the  compliment 
of  following  his  vein.  An  idea  of  these  voluminous  tales, 
made  up  of  several  plots  hardly  interwoven  at  all,  may  be 
gained  from  the  following  synopsis  of 

CLEOPATRA 

(From  Dunlop's  "History  of  Fiction") 

The  shades  of  nij;ht  had  not  yet  given  place  to  the  first  blushes  of  day, 
when  the  disconsolate  Tyridates,  awakened  by  his  cruel  inquietude,  and 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   «l6i 

unable  to  await  the  approaching  light,  left  his  solitary  mansion  to  re- 
fresh his  languishing  frame,  and  breathe  his  amorous  thoughts  on  the 
shore  of  Alexandria. 

After  some  time  he  perceives  a  great  conflagration  on  the  sea,  which 
he  concludes  must  proceed  from  a  burning  vessel,  and  he  is  naturally 
led  to  compare  the  flames  to  those  by  which  he  is  himself  consumed.  .  .  . 

This  ardent  lover  continued  his  rhapsody  till  the  approach  of  light, 
when  he  saw  coming  towards  land  a  plank,  on  which  was  seated  the 
queen  of  Ethiopia,  with  one  of  her  maids  of  honour,  while  her  prime 
minister  was  swimming  behind,  and  impelling  it  to  shore.  Tyridates 
plunged  amid  the  waves  to  their  assistance,  and,  bidding  the  prime  minis- 
ter, who  was  nearly  exhausted,  provide  for  his  own  security,  took  his 
place  at  the  plank,  by  which  means  all  parties  arrived  safe  on  land. 

The  chief  of  the  two  ladies  resembled  Venus,  .  .  .  and  would  have 
been  mistaken  by  Tyridates  for  a  sea-goddess,  had  he  not  seen  the  waves 
use  her  too  rudely  to  be  her  subjects.  On  reaching  shore,  the  first  con- 
cern of  the  lady  was  to  faint,  and  the  waiting-woman,  who,  as  Puff,  in 
Sheridan's  "Critic,"  says,  must  always  do  as  her  mistress,  and  who  on 
the  present  occasion  had  the  same  title  to  a  swoon,  instantly  fell  at  her 
feet.  When  they  had  recovered,  they  were  conducted,  along  with  Eteo- 
cles,  the  person  who  attended  them,  to  the  solitary  mansion  of  Tyridates, 
which  stood  in  the  immediate  vicinity. 

After  the  queen  had  enjoyed  a  few  hours  of  repose,  she  was  waited  on 
by  her  host,  whom  she  entreated  to  relate  the  story  of  his  life.  Tyridates 
declared  that  this  would  oblige  him  to  disclose  what  he  had  resolved  to 
hold  secret  as  long  as  his  breast  would  contain  it,  and  that  even  by  the 
acknowledgment  of  his  name,  he  would  incur  the  danger  of  his  life. 
Waiving,  however,  these  considerations,  he  informed  her  that  he  was 
brother  to  Phraates,  king  of  Parthia.  That  prince  ascended  the  throne 
by  the  murder  of  his  father,  and  all  the  rest  of  his  family,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Tyridates,  who  escaped  to  a  neighbouring  court,  and  afterwards 
settled  in  Judaea,  whose  king,  Herod,  was  the  avowed  enemy  of  Phraates. 
The  story  of  Mariamne,  as  it  is  related  in  Josephus,  is  the  basis  of  the 
adventures  of  Tyridates.  A  coolness  subsisted  on  the  part  of  this  princess 
towards  her  husband,  as  he  had  recently  put  to  death  her  father  .  .  .  , 
her  uncle  .  .  .  ,  her  two  grandfathers,  and  her  brother  .  .  .  Tyridates 
fell  desperately  in  love  with  Mariamne,  but  although  she  preserved  her 
fidelity  to  Herod  inviolate,  Salome,  that  monarch's  sister,  in  revenge 
for  an  ill-requited  affection  she  had  conceived  for  Tyridates,  and  from 
hatred  to  Mariamne,  instilled  the  most  fatal  suspicions  into  the  mind 
of  her  brother.  It  thus  became  necessary,  both  for  the  safety  of  Mari- 


1 62  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

amne  and  his  own,  that  Tyridates  should  seek  refuge  in  some  other 
country.  He  had  first  repaired  to  Rome,  but  as  the  splendour  and  gaiety 
of  that  capital  ill  accorded  with  the  frame  of  his  mind,  he  had  betaken 
himself  to  the  solitary  dwelling  which  he  now  inhabited. 

In  return  for  this  communication,  the  attendant  of  the  queen  of 
Ethiopia  commences  the  history  of  the  life  of  his  mistress,  which  is  one 
of  the  three  main  stories  in  the  work.  It  relates  to  her  love  affairs  with 
Caesario,  son  of  Julius  Cassar  and  Cleopatra,  who  had  been  believed  dead 
through  the  Roman  empire,  but  had,  in  fact,  escaped  into  Ethiopia 
after  the  ruin  of  Marc  Antony. 

About  this  time,  Coriolanus,  prince  of  Mauretania,  arrived  at  the 
mansion  of  Tyridates,  and  his  story  may  be  considered  as  the  principal 
one  in  the  romance.  .  .  .  This  prince  was  son  of  the  celebrated  Juba, 
and,  after  the  death  of  his  father,  was  educated  at  Rome.  There  he 
became  enamoured  of  Cleopatra,  the  daughter  of  the  queen  of  Egypt 
and  Marc  Antony;  but  disgusted  by  the  preference  which  Augustus 
showed  to  his  rival  Tiberius,  he  one  day  seized  an  opportunity  of  running 
his  competitor  through  the  body  on  the  street,  and  then  fled  into  Maure- 
tania. He  there  raised  a  revolt  among  his  father's  subjects,  and  having 
successively  defeated  the  Roman  commanders  who  were  sent  against 
him,  was  invested  by  the  inhabitants  with  his  paternal  sovereignty. 
After  his  coronation  he  set  out  incognito  for  Sicily,  where  the  court  of 
Augustus  then  was,  in  order  to  have  a  private  interview  with  his  lady 
love,  but  as  she  reproached  him  for  perfidy,  and  avoided  his  presence, 
instead  of  receiving  him  with  the  kindness  anticipated,  he  was,  in  conse- 
quence, thrown  into  a  violent  fever.  Understanding,  on  his  recovery, 
that  Cleopatra  had  accompanied  Augustus  and  his  court  to  Egypt,  he 
departed  for  Alexandria,  in  order  to  obtain  an  explanation  of  her  ex- 
pressions and  conduct. 

The  romance  now  returns  to  the  queen  of  Ethiopia,  who,  during  her 
residence  with  Tyridates,  was  forcibly  carried  off  by  pirates,  but  was 
afterwards  rescued  by  ...  the  prefect  of  Egypt,  and  conducted  to 
Alexandria.  In  the  palace  of  the  prefect  she  met  with  Elisa,  who  was 
daughter  of  the  king  of  Parthia,  and,  like  herself,  had  been  delivered 
by  a  Roman  vessel  from  pirates.  The  story  of  Elisa,  and  her  lover 
Artabanus,  a  young  adventurer,  who  afterwards  proves  to  be  the  son 
of  the  great  Pompey,  is  the  third  grand  narrative  of  this  production. 
Artabanus  is  the  most  warlike  and  most  amorous  of  all  the  heroes  of 
romance,  and  for  the  sake  of  Elisa  he  conquers  for  her  father  immense 
empires  in  Asia,  almost  by  his  individual  prowess. 

It  is  impossible  to  follow  the  princes  and  princesses  through  the  vari- 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH       163 

ous  adventures  and  vicissitudes  they  encounter:  suffice  it  to  say,  that 
at  length  they  are  all  safely  assembled  at  Alexandria,  where  Augustus 
also  arrives  with  his  court,  and  a  reconciliation  takes  place  between  Corio- 
lanus  and  Cleopatra.  The  designs  of  the  emperor  to  obtain  the  Princess 
Elisa  for  his  favourite  Agrippa  and  Cleopatra  for  Tiberius,  to  the  preju- 
dice of  Artabanus  and  Coriolanus,  induce  these  lovers  to  excite  an  insur- 
rection against  the  Roman  power.  They  storm  the  castle  of  Alexandria, 
but  are  there  besieged  by  Augustus,  and  soon  reduced  to  extremity.  The 
emperor,  however,  terrified  by  a  menacing  apparition  of  Julius  Caesar, 
which  about  this  time  had  unexpectedly  appeared  to  him,  consents  to 
pardon  the  princes,  and  unites  them  to  the  objects  of  their  affections. 

MADEMOISELLE  DE  SCUDERY  *  (1607-1701),  a  surprisingly 
ugly  spinster,  who  lived  with  a  boasting  and  tyrannical 
brother,  and  who  through  her  cleverness,  rallied  about  her 
a  salon  that  was  almost  a  rival  of  the  H6tel  de  Rambouillet, 
developed  in  the  romance  a  new  and  alluring  idea.  The 
classic  names  of  the  characters  that  wandered  through  the 
6679  pages  of  "The  Great  Cyrus,"  for  example,  cloaked 
personages  of  the  moment,  and  the  story  introduced  the 
gossip  of  a  day  when  gossip  was  with  good  reason  highly 
spiced.  'Cyrus'  was  the  "Great  Conde";  'Mandane,' 
Madame  de  Longueville,  his  sister;  the  Egyptians,  the 
people  of  Lorraine;  the  city  of  Artaxate,  Paris;  the  siege  of 
Cumae,  the  siege  of  Dunkirk.  In  "Clelia"  the  account  of 
the  palace  of  Valterre  describes  the  chateau,  Vaux-la-Vicomte, 
on  which  Fouquet,  La  Fontaine's  friend,  spent  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  francs,  not  all  honestly  earned.  The  minister 
was  an  intelligent  patron  of  letters,  by  the  way,  and  he  must 
have  had  the  charm  that  is  a  necessary  asset  of  the  swindler 
and  the  politician  alike,  for  Madame  de  S£vign6  in  her 
"Letters"  follows  his  trial  with  a  sympathy  which  seems  to 
reflect  a  general  feeling.  Other  characters  in  "Clelia"  are 
'Scaurus'  and  'Liriane,'  who  represent  Scarron  and  his  wife, 
afterwards  Madame  de  Maintenon;  'Alcandre,'  Louis  XIV 

•  See  quotation  from  Sainte-Beuve  in  Chapter  IX. 


1 64  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

when  a  youth;  'Damo,'  the  ever  beautiful  Ninon  de  1'Enclos; 
'Arricidie,'  the  author  herself;  and  the  group  of  wise  men  of 
Syracuse,  the  community  at  Port  Royal. 

Mademoiselle  de  Scudery's  style  was  amply  clear  in  spite 
of  its  elaborate  detail.  She  is  sagacious  in  her  selection  of 
salient  features  for  comment.  Here  is  her  description  of 
Angelique  de  Rambouillet,  whom  she  calls  'Anacrise,'  as  she 
dubs  her  sister  'Philomide.' 

Anacrise  is  not  so  tall  as  Philomide,  though  of  good  stature;  but  the 
brilliancy  of  her  complexion  is  so  surprising  and  its  delicacy  so  extraor- 
dinary that  if  she  did  not  have  extremely  beautiful  and  marvellously 
fine  eyes  it  would  be  the  cause  of  a  thousand  exclamations  and  compli- 
ments. The  spiritual,  the  delicate,  the  fine,  the  proud,  the  playful  and 
the  gentle  are  commingled  in  her  expression  in  such  wise  that  she  is  at 
once  feared  and  loved.  Her  good  nature  not  being  of  the  sort  that  hesi- 
tates to  make  war  upon  her  friends  there  is  no  doubt  that  Anacrise  is  a 
formidable  person;  for  I  do  not  believe  that  there  is  any  one  in  the  world 
whose  mockery  is  so  keen  and  pointed  as  hers.  There  are  so  few  things 
that  can  satisfy  her,  so  few  people  who  can  please  her,  so  few  amusements 
that  can  appeal  to  her  that  she  cannot  possibly  have  one  day  of  complete 
enjoyment  in  the  whole  year. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  century  (1678)  MADAME  DE  LA- 
FAYETTE (1634-1693),  who  had  collaborated  with  Segrais  in 
the  production  of  "Za'ide,"  wrote  "The  Princess  of  Cleves," 
a  piece  of  fiction  which  had  more  than  one  novel  point.  In 
the  first  place  it  was  only  one  volume  long  as  opposed  to 
the  ten  which  was  Mademoiselle  de  Scudery's  usual  number. 
Then  it  dealt  in  a  natural  way  with  natural  emotions  and 
this  \vas  a  decided  step  forward  in  the  evolution  of  the  modern 
novel.  Lastly,  the  plot  was  perfectly  possible  in  its  main 
theme.  Indeed  its  possibility  for  the  twentieth  century  as 
well  as  for  the  seventeenth  in  which  it  was  written  or  the 
sixteenth  when  its  scene  was  laid,  brings  it  among  those  books 
which  live  because  they  deal  with  universals.  The  story 
runs  thus: 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   165 

To  the  court  of  Henry  II  comes  a  beautiful  young  woman  of  the  high- 
est rank  who  has  been  carefully  reared  by  a  wise  mother.  She  marries 
the  Prince  of  Cleves  who  adores  her,  but  to  whom  she  gives  esteem  rather 
than  affection.  The  Duke  of  Nemours,  who  had  been  on  a  journey 
returns  to  a  court,  falls  in  love  with  the  Princess  and  so  impresses  her 
with  the  delicacy  as  with  the  strength  of  his  passion  that  she  returns  his 
love.  In  order  to  avoid  him  she  induces  her  husband  to  allow  her  to 
retire  to  the  country.  The  Duke  finds  it  convenient  to  visit  his  sister, 
a  country  neighbor  of  the  Princess,  and  one  day  finds  himself  in  a  summer- 
house  where  he  overhears  a  conversation  between  the  Princess  and  her 
husband  in  which  she  explains  her  reason  for  wishing  to  remain  away 
from  court. 

"And  who  is  he,"  asks  the  unlucky  Prince,  "this  happy  man  who 
causes  you  such  fear,  and  since  when  and  how  has  he  found  favor  in  your 
eyes?  What  road  has  he  found  to  reach  your  heart?  I  have  been  some- 
what consoled  for  not  having  won  it  by  the  thought  that  it  was  not  to 
be  won,  yet  here  another  has  done  what  I  could  not  do!  I  feel  a  hus- 
band's jealousy  and  a  lover's  too — yet  I  cannot  yield  to  a  husband's 
emotions  after  an  act  like  yours;  you  have  plunged  me  into  wretched- 
ness by  the  noblest  mark  of  faithfulness  that  ever  wife  gave  to  husband." 

The  Princess  refuses  to  tell  the  name  of  the  man  she  loves. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  she  replied,  "that  you  ought  to  be  content  with 
my  frankness.  Ask  me  no  more  and  do  not  give  me  cause  to  repent  of 
what  I  have  just  done.  Rest  content  with  the  assurance  that  I  give  you 
once  again,  that  no  action  of  mine  has  disclosed  my  feeling  nor  has  a  word 
been  said  to  me  at  which  I  might  take  offence." 

By  stratagem  the  Prince  discovers  that  the  Duke  of  Nemours  is  the 
object  of  his  wife's  affection,  and  sends  after  him  a  spy  who  follows  him 
to  the  country  house  where  the  Princess  is  staying. 

The  palisades  were  very  high  and  there  was  even  a  second  row  be- 
hind them  the  more  thoroughly  to  prevent  entrance,  so  that  it  was  very 
difficult  to  get  in.  Monsieur  de  Nemours  succeeded,  nevertheless,  and 
as  soon  as  he  was  in  the  garden  he  had  no  trouble  in  finding  where  Mad- 
ame de  Cloves  was,  for  he  saw  many  lights  in  the  room,  and  its  windows 
were  open.  As  he  glided  along  the  palisade  he  experienced  feelings  that 
may  easily  be  imagined.  He  stood  behind  one  of  the  long  windows  that 
served  for  door  as  well,  to  sec  what  Madame  de  Cleves  was  doing.  He 
saw  that  she  was  alone,  and  she  looked  so  wonderfully  lovely  that  he 
hardly  could  master  the  transport  which  the  sight  of  her  aroused  in  him. 
It  was  warm  and  she  had  no  covering  upon  her  head  and  neck  but  her 
.hair  in  its  charming  confusion.  She  was  lying  on  a  couch  and  before 


1 66  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

her  was  a  table  on  which  were  several  baskets  of  ribbons.  She  was  select- 
ing some  of  them  and  Monsieur  de  Nemours  observed  that  they  were 
the  same  colors  that  he  had  worn  at  Tournoy.  He  saw  that  she  was 
tying  bows  upon  an  unusual  Indian  cane  that  he  had  given  his  sister 
from  whom  Madame  de  Cleves  had  taken  it,  seeming  not  to  recognize 
that  it  had  belonged  to  Monsieur  de  Nemours.  After  she  had  finished 
her  task  with  a  grace  and  gentleness  that  brought  to  her  expression  the 
emotions  that  she  felt  in  her  heart,  she  took  a  candle  and  went  to  a  large 
table  opposite  a  picture  of  the  siege  of  Metz  in  which  was  a  likeness  of 
Monsieur  de  Nemours.  She  sat  down  before  it  and  gazed  at  the  portrait 
with  a  close  and  dreamy  attention  that  love  alone  could  give. 

What  Monsieur  de  Nemours  felt  now  need  not  be  described.  To  see 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  in  the  most  beautiful  spot  in  the  world,  a 
person  whom  he  adored,  to  see  her  without  her  knowing  that  he  saw  her, 
and  to  see  her  occupied  with  things  that  concerned  him  and  her  love 
for  him — no  other  lover  ever  had  known  or  imagined  such  a  circumstance! 

Nemours  makes  some  sound  which  alarms  the  Princess  who  hastens 
to  her  women.  The  spy  reports  the  Duke's  visit  to  the  Prince  of  Cleves 
who  straightway  falls  ill  and  dies,  though  persuaded  of  his  wife's  inno- 
cence. The  Princess  refuses  to  change  her  widowhood  and  spends  the 
remainder  of  her  short  life  in  seclusion. 

The  popularity  of  this  story,  written  in  an  elevated  tone 
at  a  time  when  Louis  XIV  was  setting  no  good  example  for 
court  or  country  to  follow,  is  but  another  instance  of  the  real 
force  of  goodness  in  fiction.  People  like  it  provided  it  is  not 
namby-pamby. 

One  of  the  paradoxes  that  marked  this  century  of  poignant 
contrasts  was  the  strong  strain  of  seriousness  which  affected 
even  people  leading  a  supposedly  frivolous  life.  Yet  this 
paradox  is  but  another  expression  of  the  contrasts  of  the 
French  "genius"  with  its  roots  of  earnestness  and  its  folia- 
tion of  lightness.  Religious  thought  turned  to  Quietism,  a 
doctrine  of  mystic  meditation,  and  was  strongly  affected  by 
the  teachings  of  Jansen,  a  Dutch  Roman  Catholic  theologian 
whose  views  on  the  freedom  of  the  will  appealed  to  many 
Protestants  and  even  secured  a  noteworthy  following  among 
Catholics  who  were  not  Jesuits.  Of  these  the  best  known 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   167 

gathered  under  the  leadership  of  ANTOINE  ARNAULD  (1612- 
1694)  in  a  semi-communistic  group  about  the  convent  of 
Port  Royal  in  the  Chevreuse  Valley,  where  resided  several 
ladies  who  were  relatives  established  in  the  religious  life. 
Before  Port  Royal  came  under  Louis  XIV's  condemnation 
in  1710,  it  had  a  century  of  usefulness  as  a  school  for  young 
people,  as  a  force  encouraging  religious  and  philosophic 
thought,  and  as  a  promoter  of  literary  dignity  and  serious- 
ness. Arnauld's  work  was  marked  by  excellent  common 
sense.  Here  is  a  paragraph  on 

JUDGMENT 

There  is  nothing  more  estimable  than  good  sense  and  justness  of  mind 
in  the  discernment  of  the  true  and  the  false.  All  other  mental  qualities 
have  a  limited  range;  but  exactness  of  reasoning  power  is  generally  useful 
in  all  of  life's  aspects  and  employments.  It  is  not  only  in  science  that  it 
is  hard  to  distinguish  truth  from  error;  it  is  difficult  also  in  most  of  the 
subjects  of  which  men  talk  and  of  the  occupations  which  they  carry  on. 
Almost  everywhere  are  different  paths,  some  true,  others  false,  and  it 
is  reason's  part  to  make  choice  of  them.  Those  who  choose  well  are  those 
who  are  mentally  exact;  those  who  take  the  wrong  road  are  those  who 
are  lacking  in  reasoning  power;  and  this  is  the  first  and  the  foremost 
distinction  to  be  made  in  the  qualities  of  men's  minds. 

BLAISE  PASCAL  (1623-1662)  was  the  most  famous  of  the 
Port  Royal  writers.  He  was  a  mathematician  and  a  physi- 
cist and  he  brought  a  mind  trained  in  scientific  reasoning  to 
bear  upon  the  discussion  of  theological  problems.  His  main 
argument  was  the  futility  of  reason  as  against  faith.  His 
"Provincial  Letters,"  written  in  defense  of  Arnauld,  are 
famous  for  their  searching  argument.  His  "Thoughts," 
though  scattered,  make  a  workable  philosophy. 

*  SELECTED  THOUGHTS  OF  BLAISE  PASCAL 
The  most  important  thing  in  the  whole  of  life  is  the  choice  of  a  vocation. 
Chance  disposes  it.     Custom  makes  masons,  soldiers,  tilers.     "That  is 

•  Translated  by  Gertrude  Burford  Rawlings.  Courtesy  of  the  Walter  Scott  Publishing 
Company. 


1 68  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

an  excellent  tiler,"  they  say;  and  in  speaking  of  soldiers,  "They  are 
perfect  fools";  and  others  say  just  the  opposite,  "There  is  nothing  great 
but  war;  all  other  men  are  knaves."  We  choose  these  professions  because 
in  our  childhood  we  have  heard  them  praised  and  others  disparaged, 
for  we  naturally  love  truth  and  hate  folly;  these  two  words  stir  us;  we 
err  only  in  their  application.  So  great  is  the  force  of  custom,  that  out 
of  those  whom  nature  has  made  simply  men,  are  fashioned  all  sorts  of 
men;  for  some  districts  are  all  masons,  others  all  soldiers,  etc.  Without 
doubt  nature  is  not  so  uniform.  Therefore  it  is  custom  which  does  this, 
for  it  constrains  nature;  though  sometimes  nature  overcomes  custom, 
and  keeps  man  in  his  instinct  in  spite  of  all  custom,  good  or  bad. 

A  portrait  carries  with  it  absence  and  presence,  pleasure  and  dis- 
pleasure; the  reality  shuts  out  absence  and  displeasure. 

Caesar  was  too  old,  it  seems  to  me,  to  go  about  amusing  himself  by 
conquering  the  world.  This  amusement  was  good  for  Augustus  or 
Alexander, — they  were  young  men,  and  young  men  are  difficult  to  re- 
strain, but  Caesar  ought  to  have  been  more  mature. 

It  is  well  to  be  wearied  and  fatigued  by  the  quest  of  the  true  good,  so 
that  we  may  stretch  out  our  arms  to  the  Deliverer. 

Man  is  only  a  reed,  the  feeblest  reed  in  nature,  but  he  is  a  thinking 
reed.  There  is  no  need  for  the  entire  universe  to  arm  itself  in  order  to 
annihilate  him:  a  vapour,  a  drop  of  water,  suffices  to  kill  him.  But 
were  the  universe  to  crush  him,  man  would  yet  be  more  noble  than  that 
which  slays  him,  because  he  knows  that  he  dies,  and  the  advantage  that 
the  universe  has  over  him;  of  this  the  universe  knows  nothing.  Thus 
all  our  dignity  lies  in  thought.  By  thought  we  must  raise  ourselves,  not 
by  space  and  time,  which  we  cannot  fill.  Let  us  strive,  then,  to  think 
well, — therein  is  the  principle  of  morality. 

Reflections  on  human  nature  are  always  appealing  when 
truth  is  epigrammatically  expressed,  and  FRANCOIS  DE  LA 
ROCHEFOUCAULD  (1613-1680)  achieved  a  great  popularity  by 
his  "Maxims."  Though  they  are  based  on  the  cynical  belief 
that  all  of  man's  activities  are  prompted  by  self-interest,  they 
are  nevertheless  rich  in  suggestions  of  moral  value. 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   169 

The  duration  of  our  passions  depends  less  on  us  than  on  the  duration 
of  our  lives. 

We  all  have  sufficient  fortitude  to  endure  the  troubles  of  others. 

Philosophy  easily  triumphs  over  troubles  past  and  troubles  to  come, 
but  it  is  conquered  by  present  troubles. 

Jealousy  feeds  on  doubt,  and  it  rises  to  madness  or  it  ends  when  doubt 
becomes  certainty. 

Happiness  rests  upon  taste  and  not  upon  things,  and  a  man  is  happy 
because  he  has  what  he  likes  and  not  because  he  has  what  others  like. 

One  is  never  so  happy  or  unhappy  as  he  thinks  he  is. 

Nothing  ought  to  lessen  our  satisfaction  in  ourselves  so  much  as  to 
see  that  at  one  time  we  disapprove  of  what  we  approve  at  another. 

There  is  no  disguise  that  can  long  conceal  the  presence  of  love,  or  feign 
it  in  its  absence. 

Love,  like  fire,  cannot  live  without  perpetual  agitation,  and  it  ceases 
to  live  when  it  ceases  to  hope  or  fear. 

Everybody  complains  of  his  memory  and  no  one  complains  of  his 
judgment. 

We  are  so  used  to  donning  a  disguise  before  other  people  that  at  last 
we  wear  one  before  ourselves. 

One  would  rather  abuse  himself  than  not  speak  of  himself  at  all. 

We  easily  forget  our  faults  when  we  are  the  only  ones  who  know  them. 

Foolishness  and  wisdom  increase  with  age. 

It  is  a  great  piece  of  foolishness  to  try  to  be  wise  all  by  yourself. 

Youth  is  a  continual  intoxication;  it  is  the  fever  of  reason. 

It  is  impossible  to  love  again  what  one  has  truly  ceased  to  love. 

Pardon  marches  with  love. 

The  reason  why  lovers  do  not  tire  of  being  together  is  because  they  are 
all  the  time  talking  about  themselves. 

ON  CONVERSATION 

(From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature") 

The  reason  why  so  few  people  are  agreeable  in  conversation  is,  that 
every  one  thinks  more  of  what  he  wishes  to  say  than  of  what  others  say. 
We  should  listen  to  those  who  speak,  if  we  would  be  listened  to  by  them; 
we  should  allow  them  to  make  themselves  understood,  and  even  to  say 
pointless  things.  Instead  of  contradicting  or  interrupting  them,  as  we 
often  do,  we  ought  on  the  contrary  to  enter  into  their  mind  and  into 
their  taste,  show  that  we  understand  them,  praise  what  they  say  so  far 
as  it  deserves  to  be  praised,  and  make  them  sec  that  it  is  rather  from 
choice  that  we  praise  them  than  from  courtesy.  We  should  avoid  dis- 


170  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

puting  about  indifferent  things,  seldom  ask  questions  (which  are  almost 
always  useless),  never  let  them  think  that  we  pretend  to  more  sense 
than  others,  and  easily  cede  the  advantage  of  deciding  a  question. 

We  ought  to  talk  of  things  naturally,  easily,  and  more  or  less  seriously, 
according  to  the  temper  and  inclination  of  the  persons  we  entertain; 
never  press  them  to  approve  what  we  say,  nor  even  to  reply  to  it.  When 
we  have  thus  complied  with  the  duties  of  politeness,  we  may  express  our 
opinions,  without  prejudice  or  obstinacy,  in  making  it  appear  that  we 
seek  to  support  them  with  the  opinions  of  those  who  are  listening. 

We  should  avoid  talking  much  of  ourselves,  and  often  giving  ourselves 
as  example.  We  cannot  take  too  much  pains  to  understand  the  bent 
and  the  compass  of  those  we  are  talking  with,  in  order  to  link  ourselves 
to  the  mind  of  him  whose  mind  is  the  most  highly  endowed;  and  to  add 
his  thoughts  to  our  own,  while  making  him  think  as  much  as  is  possible 
that  it  is  from  him  we  take  them.  There  is  cleverness  in  not  exhausting 
the  subjects  we  treat,  and  in  always  leaving  to  others  something  to 
think  of  and  say. 

We  ought  never  to  talk  with  an  air  of  authority,  nor  make  use  of  words 
and  expressions  grander  than  the  things.  We  may  keep  our  opinions, 
if  they  are  reasonable;  but  in  keeping  them,  we  should  never  wound  the 
feelings  of  others,  or  appear  to  be  shocked  at  what  they  have  said.  It 
is  dangerous  to  wish  to  be  always  master  of  the  conversation,  and  to  talk 
of  the  same  thing  too  often;  we  ought  to  enter  indifferently  on  all  agree- 
able subjects  which  offer,  and  never  let  it  be  seen  that  we  wish  to  draw 
the  conversation  to  a  subject  we  wish  to  talk  of. 

It  is  necessary  to  observe  that  every  kind  of  conversation,  however 
polite  or  however  intelligent  it  may  be,  is  not  equally  proper  for  all  kinds 
of  well-bred  persons;  we  should  choose  what  is  suited  to  each,  and  choose 
even  the  time  for  saying  it:  but  if  there  be  much  art  in  knowing  how  to 
talk  to  the  purpose,  there  is  not  less  in  knowing  how  to  be  silent.  There 
is  an  eloquent  silence, — it  serves  sometimes  to  approve  or  to  condemn; 
there  is  a  mocking  silence;  there  is  a  respectful  silence.  There  are,  in 
short,  airs,  tones,  and  manners  in  conversation  which  often  make  up  what 
is  agreeable  or  disagreeable,  delicate  or  shocking:  the  secret  for  making 
good  use  of  them  is  given  to  few  persons,  those  even  who  make  rules  for 
them  mistake  them  sometimes;  the  surest,  in  my  opinion,  is  to  have 
none  that  we  cannot  change,  to  let  our  conversation  be  careless  rather 
than  affected,  to  listen,  to  speak  seldom,  and  never  to  force  ourselves  to 
talk. 

Another  great  name  at  Port  Royal  was  that  of  Racine  the 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   171 

dramatist,  who  came  with  other  young  men  of  the  day  to  sit 
at  the  feet  of  the  clearest  thinkers  and  simplest  writers  and 
speakers  of  the  century. 

On  the  list  of  the  world's  great  metaphysicians  and  phi- 
losophers RENE  DESCARTES  (1596-1630)  stands  in  the  high- 
est rank.  Malebranche,  Spinoza,  Leibnitz,  Kant,  and  Comte 
all  drew  inspiration  from  this  Frenchman,  who,  like  Pascal, 
began  his  student  life  as  a  mathematician  and  a  physicist. 
"I  think,  therefore  I  exist"  was  the  undeniable  truth  on 
which  he  based  the  metaphysical  conclusions  which  ran  at 
variance  with  the  scholastic  arguments  which  had  been 
handed  down  from  the  Middle  Ages.  That  he  could  also 
write  with  feeling  on  commoner  themes  the  following  sym- 
pathetic bit  testifies: 

CONDOLENCE  WRITTEN  TO  A  FRIEND  WHO  HAD  JUST 
LOST  A  MEMBER  OF  HIS  FAMILY 

Although  I  am  something  of  a  recluse  from  the  world,  the  sad  news 
of  your  affliction  has  not  failed  to  reach  me.  I  am  not  among  those  who 
think  that  tears  and  grief  belong  only  to  women  and  that  in  order  to 
play  the  man  one  should  always  force  one's  self  to  keep  a  tranquil  face. 
I,  too,  have  recently  experienced  the  loss  of  two  people  who  were  very 
near  to  me,  and  I  felt  that  those  who  wished  to  forbid  all  sadness  only 
increased  it,  while  I  was  comforted  by  the  sympathy  of  those  whom  I  saw 
touched  by  my  sorrow.  Nevertheless  there  should  be  a  limit;  and  just 
as  it  would  be  barbarous  not  to  be  at  all  afflicted  when  one  has  reason, 
so  would  it  be  also  unwise  not  to  seek  with  all  one's  power  to  be  delivered 
from  so  painful  a  passion. 

It  is  true  that  weak  and  common  minds,  without  realizing  what  it  is 
they  think,  imagine  that  God  is  almost  obliged  to  do  for  love  of  them  all 
that  they  desire;  but  a  strong  and  generous  soul  like  yours,  understand- 
ing the  conditions  under  which  we  live,  always  submits  to  His  law. 

As  to  the  well-being  of  the  person  whom  you  mourn — neither  reason 
nor  religion  need  fear  evil  after  this  existence  for  those  who  have  lived 
their  lives  honorably  and  well,  and  who  have  died  as  they  have  lived,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  both  promise  for  them  joys  and  rewards.  I  well  know 
that  I  tell  you  here  nothing  new;  but  one  should  not  despise  good  rem- 


172  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

edies  simply  because  they  are  frequent;  and  having  taken  this  remedy 
myself,  I  feel  obliged  to  pass  it  on  to  you. 

Of  great  moral  influence  because  of  their  generally  fearless 
exposition  of  truth  as  they  saw  it  and  of  facts  as  they  existed 
were  the  preachers  who  followed  one  another  through  the 
century  in  an  ascending  scale  of  worth.  The  early  orators 
were  'spellbinders'  and  attracted  by  their  eloquence.  The 
later  men  added  to  eloquence  a  strong  ethical  appeal,  and  the 
combination  drew  fashionable  people  to  listen  not  only  to 
funeral  orations  and  sermons  on  occasions  of  ceremony,  but 
to  enjoy  whole-heartedly  all  sermons,  controversial,  psycho- 
logical, and  polemic. 

JACQUES  BENIGNE  BOSSUET  (1627-1704)  was  the  Dau- 
phin's tutor,  and,  later,  was  appointed  to  the  bishopric  of 
Meaux.  His  sermons  have  been  longest  remembered  for 
their  vigor  and  directness.  He  wrote  earnestly  and  clearly 
on  theological  subjects  and  a  "Discourse  Upon  Universal 
History"  made  an  appeal  of  permanent  importance. 

FROM  THE  "DISCOURSE  UPON  UNIVERSAL  HISTORY" 

(From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature") 

Even  were  history  useless  to  other  men,  it  would  still  be  necessary  to 
have  it  read  by  princes.  There  is  no  better  way  of  making  them  dis- 
cover what  can  be  brought  about  by  passions  and  interests,  by  times  and 
circumstances,  by  good  and  bad  advice.  The  books  of  historians  are 
filled  with  the  actions  that  occupy  them,  and  everything  therein  seems 
to  have  been  done  for  their  use.  If  experience  is  necessary  to  them  for 
acquiring  that  prudence  which  enables  them  to  become  good  rulers, 
nothing  is  more  useful  to  their  instruction  than  to  add  to  the  example 
of  past  centuries  the  experiences  with  which  they  meet  every  day.  While 
usually  they  learn  to  judge  of  the  dangerous  circumstances  that  sur- 
round them,  only  at  the  expense  of  their  subjects  and  of  their  own  glory, 
by  the  help  of  history  they  form  their  judgment  upon  the  events  of  the 
past  without  risking  anything.  When  they  see  even  the  most  completely 
hidden  vices  of  princes  exposed  to  the  eyes  of  all  men,  in  spite  of  the  in- 
sincere praise  which  they  received  while  alive,  they  feel  ashamed  of  the 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH       173 

empty  joy  which  flattery  gives  them,  and  they  acknowledge  that  true 
glory  cannot  obtain  without  real  merit. 

Moreover,  it  would  be  disgraceful, — I  do  not  say  for  a  prince,  but  in 
general  for  any  educated  man, — not  to  know  the  human  kind  and  the 
memorable  changes  which  took  place  in  the  world  through  the  lapse  of 
ages.  If  we  do  not  learn  from  history  to  distinguish  the  times,  we  shall 
represent  men  under  the  law  of  nature,  or  under  the  civil  law,  the  same 
as  under  the  sway  of  the  gospel;  we  shall  speak  of  the  Persians  conquered 
under  Alexander  in  the  same  way  as  of  the  Persians  victorious  under 
Cyrus;  we  shall  represent  Greece  as  free  in  the  time  of  Philip  as  in  the 
time  of  Themistoclcs  or  Miltiades;  the  Roman  people  as  proud  under 
the  Emperors  as  under  the  Consuls;  the  Church  as  quiet  under  Dio- 
cletian as  under  Constantine;  and  France,  disturbed  by  civil  wars  under 
Charles  IX  and  Henry  III,  as  powerful  as  in  the  time  of  Louis  XIV,  when, 
united  under  such  a  great  king,  alone  she  triumphs  over  the  whole  of 
Europe. 

Louis  BOURDALOUE  (1632-1704)  was  above  all  else  a 
pulpit  speaker,  though  his  sermons  make  good  reading.  He 
was  a  Jesuit,  persuasive  and  convincing,  and  of  a  valiant 
courage  in  attacking  the  sins  and  foibles  of  the  people  who 
sat  before  him.  His  remarks  on  "Ambition"  must  have  hit 
home. 

While  Ambition  is  being  pursued,  she  holds  before  the  eyesof  him  whom 
she  blinds  a  flourishing  condition  in  which  there  shall  be  nothing  more  to 
be  desired.  The  pursuer's  wishes  shall  be  attained,  he  shall  taste  the 
pleasure  which  is  sweetest  to  him  and  by  which  he  shall  be  most  sensibly 
affected;  he  shall  know,  dominate,  order,  be  the  arbiter  of  affairs  and  the 
dispenser  of  favors,  scintillate  in  a  ministry,  in  a  position  of  dazzling  dig- 
nity, receive  the  incense  of  the  public  and  its  submission,  and  make 
himself  feared,  honored  and  respected. 

All  this  represents  for  him  a  most  agreeable  idea,  and  paints  in  his 
imagination  the  object  most  conforming  to  the  wishes  of  his  heart;  but 
at  bottom  it  is  but  an  idea,  and  what  it  holds  of  reality  is  that,  in  order 
to  attain  to  the  desired  goal  which  the  imagination  paints  so  full  of 
pleasure,  it  is  necessary  to  take  a  thousand  measures  all  equally  weary- 
ing, and  all  contrary  to  his  inclination.  He  must  undermine  his  strength 
with  reflection  and  study,  add  thought  to  thought,  design  to  design, 
rount  all  his  words,  guard  all  his  actions,  keep  perpetually  an  attitude 


174  TPIE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

of  unrelaxed  attention  both  toward  himself  and  others.  In  order  to 
content  the  single  passion  of  raising  himself  to  this  state,  he  must  ex- 
pose himself  to  the  danger  of  becoming  the  prey  of  all  the  passions;  for 
is  there  a  single  passion  within  us  that  Ambition  does  not  arouse 
against  us? 

And  is  it  not  Ambition  who,  in  accordance  with  the  different  circum- 
stances and  various  feelings  by  which  she  is  set  in  motion,  now  embitters 
us  with  the  most  venomous  spite,  now  poisons  us  with  the  most  mortal 
enmities,  now  inflames  us  with  the  most  violent  anger,  now  overwhelms 
us  with  the  most  profound  sadness,  now  tears  us  with  the  blackest  melan- 
choly, now  devours  us  with  the  most  cruel  jealousy?  Is  it  not  Ambition 
who  makes  a  soul  suffer  as  in  a  kind  of  hell,  and  who  rends  it  by  a  thousand 
torments  both  within  and  without? 

Man  of  affairs,  teacher,  psychologist,  preacher,  FRANCOIS 
DE  LA  MOTHE-FENELON  (1651-1715)  archbishop  of  Cambrai, 
exercised  all  his  functions  in  the  service  of  France  and  of  the 
king.  He  was  the  tutor  of  the  Dauphin's  son  for  whom  he 
wrote  "Telemachus,"  a  happy  combination  of  classical  lore 
with  modern  wisdom;  he  advocated  measures  looking  to  the 
political  advancement  of  the  people;  he  was  a  discriminating 
critic;  and  he  preached  and  wrote  in  a  nervous  yet  graceful 
and  imaginative  style. 

*THE  GODDESS  CALYPSO 

From  "  Telemachus  " 

Telemachus  followed  the  goddess  as  she  moved  away,  surrounded  by  a 
bevy  of  young  nymphs,  taller  by  a  head  than  any  of  her  handmaidens, 
and  like  some  great  oak  of  the  forest  that  spreads  its  leafy  branches  above 
its  neighbors.  He  admired  the  splendor  of  her  beauty,  the  rich  purple 
of  her  long  and  trailing  draperies,  her  tresses  gathered  at  the  neck  in  a 
loose  but  graceful  knot,  and  her  sparkling  eyes,  whose  vivacity  was 
tempered  by  a  certain  sweetness.  Mentor,  with  modestly  downcast 
eyes,  followed  Telemachus.  On  arriving  at  the  grotto  of  Calypso,  Tele- 
machus was  surprised  to  see  that  despite  an  air  of  rustic  simplicity,  it 
was  provided  with  all  that  could  charm  the  eye.  There  was  there  neither 
gold  nor  silver,  neither  marble  nor  columns,  neither  paintings  nor  statues. 
*  From  ''Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature." 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH       175 

The  grotto  itself  was  cut  out  of  the  living  rock,  and  its  vaulted  roof  was 
ornamented  with  pebbles  and  sea-shells.  Along  the  walls  a  young  vine 
had  trailed  its  supple  branches,  and  clothed  the  grotto  with  the  greenest 
of  tapestries.  Gentle  zephyrs  fanned  a  delicious  fragrance  into  this 
favored  spot,  and  cooled  the  rays  of  the  sun,  while  from  many  fountains 
the  sweet  waters  stole  softly  away  over  beds  of  amarynths  and  violets, 
and  gathered  here  and  there  into  crystal  pools.  Countless  flowers  sprang 
from  the  fresh  earth  on  all  sides,  and  enameled  the  green  turf  with  the 
loveliest  of  colors.  Here  the  eye  rested  upon  a  forest  of  umbrageous 
trees,  among  whose  leafy  branches  hung  golden  apples,  and  whose 
blooms,  renewed  with  every  season,  shed  around  the  most  delicious  of 
perfumes.  This  forest  seemed  almost  to  hide  the  rich  meadows,  and  to 
cast  over  them  a  deep  night  that  no  rays  of  the  sun  could  penetrate,  but 
through  which  could  be  heard  the  songs  of  birds,  and  the  noise  of  a  water- 
fall that  dashed  in  foamy  masses  from  the  summit  of  a  rock  and  hastened 
away  across  the  plain. 

*TO  ONE  IN  PERPLEXITY 

From  ''Spiritual  Letters" 

You  doubt,  and  you  cannot  bear  up  under  doubt.  I  am  not  sur- 
prised; doubt  is  torture;  but  do  not  argue,  and  you  will  cease  to  doubt. 
The  shadows  of  a  simple  faith  are  very  different  from  doubt;  its  troubles 
bring  their  own  consolation  and  fruits.  After  they  have  reduced  a  man 
they  restore  him,  and  leave  him  in  full  peace.  Doubt  is  the  trouble  of  a 
soul  left  to  itself,  which  wants  to  see  what  God  hides  from  it,  and  out  of 
self-love  seeks  impossible  securities.  What  have  you  sacrificed  to  God, 
save  your  own  judgment  and  self-interest?  Would  you  lose  sight  of  that 
which  has  been  your  aim  from  your  very  first  step,  namely,  to  abandon 
yourself  to  God?  Would  you  make  shipwreck  when  just  in  port,  recall 
your  gift,  and  require  God  to  subject  himself  to  your  rules,  whereas  he 
requires,  and  you  have  promised,  to  walk  Abraham-like  in  the  deepest 
darkness  of  faith?  And  what  merit  would  there  be  in  your  course,  if 
you  had  miracles  and  revelations  to  make  sure  of  your  path?  Miracles 
and  revelations  would  soon  lose  their  force,  and  you  would  fall  back  into 
your  doubts.  You  are  giving  way  to  temptation.  Do  not  hearken  to 
yourself;  your  real  convictions,  if  you  will  follow  them  simply,  will  put 
to  flight  all  these  phantoms. 

JEAN  BAPTISTE  MASSILLON  (1663-1742),  bishop  of  Cler- 

•  From  "  Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature." 


176  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

mont,  was  the  last  of  the  famous  preachers.  Since  his  death 
France  has  known  no  such  powerful  pulpit  oratory.  Yet 
Massillon  was  inferior  to  his  predecessor  because  his  style 
was  superior  to  his  matter.  He  was  extremely  popular  with 
men  and  women  of  widely  different  minds  and  interests. 
He  preached  the  funeral  sermon  over  the  Dauphin  and  also 
over  the  Sun  King  himself,  who  was  his  cordial  admirer  from 
the  time  when  he  had  listened  to  his  first  court  sermon,  from 
which  is  taken  the  following  extract. 

*  THE  BLESSEDNESS  OF  THE  RIGHTEOUS 
Text:  "Blessed  are  they  that  mourn" 

Sire:  If  the  world  were  speaking  here  instead  of  Jesus  Christ,  no  doubt 
it  would  not  offer  such  language  as  this  to  your  Majesty. 

"Blessed  the  Prince,"  it  would  say  to  you,  "  >vho  has  never  fought  but 
to  conquer;  who  has  seen  so  many  powers  in  arms  against  him,  only  to 
gain  glory  in  granting  them  peace;  who  has  always  been  equally  greater 
than  danger  and  greater  than  victory ! 

"Blessed  the  Prince,  who  throughout  the  course  of  a  long  and  nourish- 
ing reign  has  peacefully  enjoyed  the  emoluments  of  his  glory,  the  love 
of  his  subject  peoples,  the  esteem  of  his  enemies,  the  admiration  of  all 
the  world,  the  advantage  of  his  conquests,  the  magnificence  of  his  works, 
the  wisdom  of  his  laws,  the  august  hope  of  a  numerous  posterity;  and  who 
has  nothing  more  to  desire  than  long  to  preserve  that  which  he  possesses! " 

Thus  the  world  would  speak;  but,  Sire,  Jesus  does  not  speak  like  the 
world. 

"Blessed,"  says  he  to  you,  "not  he  who  is  achieving  the  admiration 
of  his  age,  but  he  who  is  making  the  world  to  come  his  principal  concern, 
and  who  lives  in  contempt  of  himself,  and  of  all  that  is  passing  away; 
because  his  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

"Blessed,  not  he  whose  reign  and  whose  acts  history  is  going  to  im- 
mortalize into  the  remembrance  of  men,  but  he  whose  tears  shall  have 
effaced  the  story  of  his  sins  from  the  remembrance  of  God  himself;  be- 
cause he  will  be  eternally  comforted. 

"Blessed,  not  he  who  shall  have  extended  by  new  conquests  the  limits 
of  his  empire,  but  he  who  shall  have  confined  his  inclinations  and  pas- 

*  From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature." 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   177 

sions  within  the  limits  of  the  law  of  God;  because  he  will  possess  an  estate 
more  lasting  than  the  empire  of  the  whole  world. 

"Blessed,  not  he  who,  raised  by  the  acclamations  of  subject  peoples 
above  all  the  princes  who  have  preceded  him,  peacefully  enjoys  his 
grandeur  and  his  glory,  but  he  who,  not  finding  on  the  throne  even  any- 
thing worthy  of  his  heart,  seeks  for  perfect  happiness  here  below  only 
in  virtue  and  in  righteousness;  because  he  will  be  satisfied. 

"Blessed,  not  he  to  whom  men  shall  have  given  the  glorious  titles  of 
'Great*  and  'Invincible,'  but  he  to  whom  the  unfortunate  shall  have 
given,  before  Jesus,  the  title  of  'Father'  and  of  'Merciful';  because  he 
will  be  treated  with  mercy. 

"  Blessed,  in  fine,  not  he  who,  being  always  arbiter  of  the  destiny  of  his 
enemies,  has  more  than  once  given  peace  to  the  earth,  but  he  who  has 
been  able  to  give  it  to  himself,  and  to  banish  from  his  heart  the  vices 
and  inordinate  affections  which  trouble  the  tranquillity  of  it;  because  he 
will  be  called  a  child  of  God." 

These,  Sire,  are  they  whom  Jesus  calls  blessed,  and  the  Gospel  does 
not  know  any  other  blessedness  on  earth  than  virtue  and  innocence. 

Early  in  the  century  JEAN  GUEZ  DE  BALZAC  (1597-1654) 
adopted  a  literary  form  little  used  before  then  but  developed 
later  with  an  art  which  has  given  preeminence  to  French 
writers  of  letters  and  of  memoirs.  Balzac's  style  led  his 
prose-producing  contemporaries  but  it  was  ponderous,  as  the 
following  epistle  will  show: 

LETTER  TO  CARDINAL  DE  LA  VALETTE 

Monseigneur, — The  hope  that  was  given  me  three  months  ago  that 
you  were  about  to  pass  your  days  in  this  country  has  prevented  me  until 
now  from  writing  to  you,  and  from  using  this  sole  means  that  is  left  of 
approaching  your  person. 

In  Rome,  you  will  walk  on  stones  that  were  once  the  gods  of  Caesar 
and  of  Pompey;  you  will  ponder  over  the  ruins  of  those  great  works  whose 
old  age  is  still  beautiful,  and  you  will  saunter  every  day  midst  history 
and  fable;  but  these  are  pastimes  for  a  spirit  which  is  contented  by  little 
and  are  not  occupations  for  one  who  finds  pleasure  in  navigating  his  bark 
amidst  storms.  After  you  have  seen  the  Tiber  on  whose  banks  the 
Romans  first  tasted  victory  and  where  they  began  the  long  plan  of  con- 
quest which  they  did  not  complete  save  at  the  extremities  of  the  earth; 


178  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

when  you  have  entered  into  the  Capitol,  where  they  believe  that  God 
is  as  present  as  in  Heaven  and  which  He  has  destined  to  become  the 
centre  of  universal  monarchy;  after  you  have  traversed  that  great  space 
which  used  to  be  dedicated  to  the  pleasures  of  the  people,  I  doubt  not 
that  after  you  have  seen  many  other  things  still,  you  will  become  weary 
at  last  of  the  repose  and  tranquillity  of  Rome. 

For  an  infinity  of  important  reasons  there  is  need  that  you  should  be 
at  the  first  conclave,  and  that  you  be  present  at  this  war  which  does  not 
lack  importance  because  waged  by  unarmed  people.  Whatever  great 
object  your  ambition  proposes  for  itself,  it  can  conceive  nothing  higher 
than  at  one  and  the  same  time  to  give  a  successor  to  the  consuls,  emperors, 
and  apostles  and  to  elect  by  your  eloquence  him,  who  tramples  on  the 
heads  of  kings  and  who  has  the  guardianship  of  all  souls. 

A  quarter  of  a  century  later  de  la  Rochefoucauld  and 
Cardinal  de  Retz,  both  of  whom  have  been  quoted,  com- 
mented shrewdly  and  frankly  upon  men  they  had  known  and 
actions  in  which  they  had  taken  part.  Their  portraits  are 
beyond  price  to  the  student  of  the  period  and,  indeed,  from 
a  group  of  these  keen-eyed  observers  the  society  of  the  cen- 
tury may  be  reconstructed  as  completely  as  has  been 
done  from  "The  Grand  Cyrus"  of  Mademoiselle  Scudery. 
ST.  SIMON  (1675-1755)  covered  the  end  of  the  century,  with  its 
persecutions  of  Protestants  and  Jansenists,  the  late  wars,  and 
the  early  part  of  Louis  XV's  reign.  The  extract  below  shows 
the  chatty  style  of  this  admirable  writer  of  recollections. 

*  A  PARAGON  OF  POLITENESS 

From  the  "Memoirs" 

The  Due  de  Coislin  died  about  this  time.  I  have  related  in  its 
proper  place  an  adventure  that  happened  to  him  and  his  brother,  the 
Chevalier  de  Coislin:  now  I  will  say  something  more  of  the  duke.  He 
was  a  very  little  man,  of  much  humor  and  virtue,  but  of  a  politeness  that 
was  unendurable,  and  that  passed  all  bounds,  though  not  incompatible 
with  dignity.  He  had  been  lieutenant-general  in  the  army.  Upon  one 
occasion,  after  a  battle  in  which  he  had  taken  part,  one  of  the  Rhin- 
graves  who  had  been  made  prisoner  fell  to  his  lot.  The  Due  de  Coislin 
•  From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature." 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH       179 

wished  to  give  up  to  the  other  his  bed,  which  consisted  indeed  of  but  a 
mattress.  They  complimented  each  other  so  much,  the  one  pressing, 
the  other  refusing,  that  in  the  end  they  both  slept  on  the  ground,  leav- 
ing the  mattress  between  them.  The  Rhingrave  in  due  time  came  to 
Paris  and  called  on  the  Due  de  Coislin.  When  he  was  going,  there  was 
such  a  profusion  of  compliments,  and  the  duke  insisted  so  much  on  seeing 
him  out,  that  the  Rhingrave,  as  a  last  resource,  ran  out  of  the  room  and 
double-locked  the  door  outside.  M.  de  Coislin  was  not  thus  to  be  out- 
done. His  apartments  were  only  a  few  feet  above  the  ground.  He 
opened  the  window  accordingly,  leaped  out  into  the  court,  and  arrived 
thus  at  the  entrance  door  before  the  Rhingrave,  who  thought  the  Devil 
must  have  carried  him  there.  The  Due  de  Coislin,  however,  had  man- 
aged to  put  his  thumb  out  of  joint  by  this  leap.  He  called  in  Felix,  chief 
surgeon  of  the  King,  who  soon  put  the  thumb  to  rights.  Soon  after- 
wards Felix  made  a  call  upon  M.  de  Coislin  to  see  how  he  was,  and  found 
that  the  cure  was  perfect.  As  he  was  about  to  leave,  M.  de  Coislin  must 
needs  open  the  door  for  him.  F61ix,  with  a  shower  of  bows,  tried  hard 
to  prevent  this;  and  while  they  were  thus  vying  in  politeness,  each  with 
a  hand  upon  the  door,  the  duke  suddenly  drew  back; — he  had  put  his 
thumb  out  of  joint  again,  and  Felix  was  obliged  to  attend  to  it  on  the 
spot!  It  may  be  imagined  what  laughter  this  story  caused  the  King, 
and  everybody  else,  when  it  became  known. 

MADAME  DE  MAINTENON'S  (1635-1716)  interest  in  educa- 
tion was  by  no  means  perfunctory.  She  trained  her  royal 
charges  with  care,  and  when  she  was  raised  beyond  financial 
need  she  established  a  boarding  school  for  girls  (Saint-Cyr) 
and  wrote  for  their  benefit  and  to  help  all  teachers  of  girls 
several  educational  treatises  full  of  good  sense  and  good 
temper.  This  letter  to  an  ambitious  niece  must  have  been 
distinctly  crushing. 

I  love  you  too  fondly,  my  dear  niece,  not  to  tell  you  the  truth.  I  tell 
it  to  the  young  girls  at  Saint-Cyr,  and  why  should  I  neglect  you  whom 
I  regard  as  my  own  daughter?  I  know  not  if  it  is  you  who  inspire  them 
with  haughtiness  or  they  who  arouse  in  you  what  they  admire  in  you. 
Whichever  it  may  be  you  will  be  insupportable  if  you  do  not  become 
humble.  The  tone  of  authority  that  you  assume  is  not  becoming. 

Do  you  think  that  you  are  an  important  personage  because  you  have 
been  reared  in  a  house  to  which  the  King  goes  every  day?  The  day  after 


I  So  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

his  death  neither  his  successor  nor  those  who  caress  you  will  pay  any 
attention  either  to  you  or  to  Saint-Cyr.  If  the  King  dies  before  you 
marry  you  will  probably  wed  some  provincial  gentleman  with  little  prop- 
erty and  much  pride.  If,  during  my  lifetime  you  marry  a  nobleman  he 
will  esteem  you  after  my  death  only  in  such  measure  as  you  please  him; 
and  you  will  please  him  only  by  gentleness — a  quality  of  which  you  have 
none  at  all.  I  am  not  prejudiced  against  you,  but  I  observe  in  you  the 
terrible  fault  of  pride.  You  know  the  evangel  by  heart,  and  what  does 
that  avail  if  you  are  not  guided  by  its  maxims? 

Remember  that  it  is  merely  your  aunt's  fortune  that  has  made  your 
father's  and  will  make  yours,  and  pay  small  heed  to  the  attentions  that 
are  paid  you.  Perhaps  you  would  even  be  glad  to  be  raised  to  a  position 
above  mine.  Do  not  flatter  yourself;  I  am  a  small  matter  and  you  are 
nothing  at  all. 

I  speak  to  you  as  to  a  grown  girl  because  you  have  the  intelligence  of 
one.  I  should  be  heartily  glad  if  you  had  less,  provided  you  lost  this 
presumption  which  is  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  men  and  criminal  before 
God.  If  I  find  you  when  I  come  back  modest,  sweet,  shy,  docile,  I  shall 
love  you  the  more.  You  know  how  hard  it  is  for  me  to  scold  you,  yet 
what  a  satisfaction  it  is  to  do  it. 

More  general  than  the  memoir  writers,  and  more  universal 
because  describing  types  as  did  Theophrastus  who  was  his 
model,  was  JEAN  DE  LA  BRUYERE  (1645-1696).  His  "Char- 
acters" were  cunningly  drawn,  were  received  with  joy  by  the 
century  into  which  they  fitted,  and  are  read  to-day  with  de- 
lighted recognition.  'Cydias'  in  the  following  portrait,  was 
Fontenelle  whose  life,  spanning  a  full  century  (1657-1757)  was 
first  given  over  to  the  production  of  verse  which  La  Bruyere 
thought  absurd,  and  later  to  the  useful  spreading  of  scientific 
knowledge  in  a  popular  form. 

*  THE  CHARACTER  OF  CYDIAS 

From  the  "  Characters  " 

Ascanius  is  a  sculptor,  Hegio  an  iron-founder,  ^schines  a  fuller,  and 

Cydias  a  wit,  for  that  is  his  trade.    He  has  a  signboard,  a  shop,  work 

that  is  ordered,  and  journeymen  who  work  under  him;  he  cannot  possibly 

let  you  have  those  stanzas  he  has  promised  you  in  less  than  a  month, 

*  From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature." 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   181 

unless  he  breaks  his  word  with  Dosithea,  who  has  engaged  him  to  write 
an  elegy;  he  has  also  an  idyl  on  the  loom  which  is  for  Grantor,  who  presses 
him  for  it,  and  has  promised  him  a  liberal  reward.  You  can  have  what- 
ever you  like — prose  or  verse,  for  he  is  just  as  good  in  one  as  in  the  other. 
If  you  want  a  letter  of  condolence,  or  one  on  some  person's  absence,  he 
will  write  them:  he  has  them  even  ready-made,  step  into  his  warehouse, 
and  you  may  pick  and  choose.  Cydias  has  a  friend  who  has  nothing 
else  to  do  but  to  promise  to  certain  people  a  long  time  beforehand  that 
the  great  man  will  come  to  them,  and  who  finally  introduces  him  in 
some  society  as  a  man  seldom  to  be  met  with  and  exquisite  in  conversa- 
tion. Then,  just  as  a  vocalist  sings  or  as  a  lute-player  touches  his  instru- 
ment in  a  company  where  it  has  been  expected,  Cydias,  after  having 
coughed,  puts  back  his  ruffles,  extends  his  hand,  opens  his  fingers,  and 
very  gravely  utters  his  over-refined  thoughts  and  his  sophisticated  argu- 
ments. Unlike  those  persons  whose  principles  agree,  and  who  know 
that  reason  and  truth  are  one  and  the  same  thing,  and  snatch  the  words 
out  of  one  another's  mouths  to  acquiesce  in  one  another's  sentiments, 
he  never  opens  his  mouth  but  to  contradict:  "  I  think,"  he  says  graciously, 
"it  is  just  the  opposite  of  what  you  say":  or,  "I  am  not  at  all  of  your 
opinion;"  or  else,  "Formerly  I  was  under  the  same  delusion  as  you  are 
now;  but  ...  ";  and  then  he  continues,  "There  are  three  things  to  be 
considered,"  to  which  he  adds  a  fourth.  He  is  an  insipid  chatterer;  no 
sooner  has  he  obtained  a  footing  into  any  society  than  he  looks  out  for 
some  ladies  whom  he  can  fascinate,  before  whom  he  can  set  forth  his 
wit  or  his  philosophy,  and  produce  his  rare  conceptions:  for  whether  he 
speaks  or  writes,  he  ought  never  to  be  suspected  of  saying  what  is  true 
or  false,  sensible  or  ridiculous;  his  only  care  is  not  to  express  the  same 
sentiments  as  some  one  else,  and  to  differ  from  everybody.  Therefore  in 
conversation,  he  often  waits  till  every  one  has  given  his  opinion  on  some 
casual  subject,  or  one  which  not  seldom  he  has  introduced  himself,  in 
order  to  utter  dogmatically  things  which  are  perfectly  new,  but  which 
he  thinks  decisive  and  unanswerable.  He  is,  in  a  word,  a  compound 
of  pedantry  and  formality,  to  be  admired  by  cits  and  rustics;  in  whom, 
nevertheless,  there  is  nothing  great  except  the  opinion  he  has  of  himself. 

Most  winning  of  all  the  prose  writers  of  the  whole  century 
is  the  MARQUISE  DE  SEVIGNE  (1626-1696)  whose  letters  ad- 
dressed to  her  daughter  in  the  provinces  are  not  only  charm- 
ing in  style,  but  are  an  ample  record  of  the  happenings  at 
court,  at  the  H6tel  de  Rambouillet  and  in  Paris  society. 


182  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

She  herself  was  as  bewitching  as  she  was  clever.    De  Mon- 
treuil  addressed  a  quatrain 

TO  MME.  DE  SEVIGNE  PLAYING  BLIND  MAN'S  BUFF 

(From  "Library  of  Poetry  and  Song"  edited  by  William  Cullen  Bryant) 

You  charm  when  you  walk,  talk  or  move 

Still  more  on  this  day  than  another: 
When  blinded — you're  taken  for  Love; 

When  the  bandage  is  off — for  his  mother! 

Madame  de  Sevigne's  tale  of  events  is  not  only  valuable  as 
a  record  of  facts  and  of  her  own  opinion  concerning  them — it 
reflects  also  the  general  attitude  of  society  toward  them. 
Her  account  of  Fouquet's  trial,  of  the  famous  poisoning 
scandals,  of  the  astounding  announcement  of  the  approach- 
ing marriage  of  the  Grande  Mademoiselle  (Duchess  of  Mont- 
pensier  and  cousin  of  Louis  XIV)  and  of  the  equally  astound- 
ing announcement  that  it  would  not  take  place,  have  a 
historic  interest  now  as  well  as  a  news  interest  at  the  time  of 
writing.  She  comments  on  books — she  adores  La  Calprenede 
— and  on  preachers — Bourdaloue  took  her  breath  away — and 
on  fashions,  whose  latest  whims  she  describes  for  the  benefit 
of  the  dweller  far  from  fashion's  center.  Mademoiselle  de 
Sevigne,  by  the  way,  was  the  third  wife  of  that  Marquis  de 
Grignan  who  had  married  for  his  first  wife,  Angelique  de 
Rambouillet. 

In  addition  to  a  grist  of  cheerful  gossip  the  quotations  be- 
low give  an  idea  of  the  amusements  offered  the  Grand  Mon- 
arch, and  the  seriousness  with  which  his  entertainment  was 
regarded  by  the  people  who  had  the  honor  of  sharing  in  even 
a  subordinate  way  in  providing  for  it. 

To  Madame  de  Grignan: 

Friday  evening,  April  24,  1671 

at  M.  de  la  Rochefoucauld's 

I  am  preparing  my  packet  here.  I  was  planning  to  tell  you  that  the 
King  arrived  at  Chantilly  yesterday  evening;  he  hunted  a  stag  by  moon- 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   183 

light;  the  lanterns  did  wonders,  but  the  fireworks  were  somewhat  effaced 
by  the  brightness  of  our  lunar  friend;  still  the  evening,  the  supper,  the 
play  all  went  off  wonderfully  well.  To-day's  weather  made  us  hope  for 
a  worthy  continuance  of  so  pleasant  a  beginning.  But  here  is  what  I 
learned  upon  reaching  here,  a  piece  of  news  from  which  I  cannot  recover, 
and  which  has  made  me  forget  what  I  was  going  to  tell  you.  It  is  that 
Vatel,  the  great  Vatel,  M.  Fouquet's  steward,  and  but  now  of  M.  le 
Prince's  household,  the  man  whose  ability  distinguished  him  above 
all  others,  and  whose  clever  head  could  contain  all  the  responsibility  of 
a  state;  the  man  whom  I  knew — because  the  fish  had  not  come  this  morn- 
ing at  eight  o'clock,  could  not  endure  the  shame  with  which  he  thought 
that  he  was  going  to  be  overwhelmed,  and,  in  short,  stabbed  himself. 
You  can  imagine  the  terrible  disorder  into  which  such  an  accident  has 
thrown  the  fete.  Just  fancy  that  perhaps  the  fish  came  while  he  was 
dying.  At  the  moment  I  know  nothing  more  about  it;  I  fancy  that  you 
find  it  enough.  I  do  not  doubt  that  the  confusion  was  great;  it  was  a 
sad  ending  to  an  entertainment  that  cost  fifty  thousand  crowns. 

To  Madame  De  Grignan: 

Paris,  Sunday, 

April  26,  1671 

It  is  Sunday  the  26th  of  April;  this  letter  will  not  go  until  Wednesday; 
but  it  is  not  a  letter,  it  is  a  recital  of  what  Moreuil  has  just  told  me 
on  your  behalf,  of  the  Vatel  matter  at  Chantilly.  I  wrote  you  on  Friday 
that  he  had  stabbed  himself;  here  is  the  affair  in  detail.  The  King  ar- 
rived on  Thursday  evening;  the  promenade,  the  collation  served  in  a 
spot  carpeted  with  jonquils,  all  went  off  successfully.  There  was  a  sup- 
per; at  a  few  tables  the  roast  was  lacking  because  of  several  guests  who 
had  not  been  expected.  This  disturbed  Vatel  and  he  exclaimed  several 
times  "My  honor  is  lost;  I  cannot  endure  the  shame  of  it."  He  said  to 
Gourville  "My  head  is  swimming;  I  have  not  slept  for  a  dozen  nights; 
help  me  give  my  orders."  Gourville  comforted  him  as  well  as  he  could. 
He  kept  thinking  of  the  roast — which  was  not  lacking  at  the  King's 
table,  by  the  way,  but  at  the  twenty-fifth.  Gourville  told  M.  le  Prince 
about  it.  M.  le  Prince  went  at  once  to  Vatel's  room  and  said  to  him, 
"Vatel,  everything  is  going  on  well;  nothing  could  be  finer  than  the  King's 
supper."  He  answered,  " Monseigneur,  I  am  overcome  by  your  kindness; 
I  know  that  the  roast  was  wanting  at  two  tables."  "Not  at  all,"  said 
M.  le  Prince,  "don't  be  worried;  everything  is  going  well."  Midnight 
came.  The  fireworks,  which  cost  16,000  francs,  were  not  successful 
because  of  a  fog.  At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  Vatel  wandered  about 


1 84  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

and  found  everybody  asleep.  He  met  a  young  steward  who  was  bringing 
him  only  two  baskets  of  fish;  he  asked  him  "Is  that  all?"  "Yes,  sir." 
He  did  not  know  that  Vatel  had  sent  to  all  the  sea  ports.  Vatel  waited 
for  some  time;  the  other  stewards  did  not  appear.  His  brain  was  reeling, 
he  thought  that  there  would  be  no  more  fish;  he  found  Gourville  and 
said  to  him:  "Sir,  I  cannot  survive  this  shame."  Gourville  made  fun 
of  him.  Vatel  went  up  to  his  room,  put  his  sword  against  the  door,  and 
thrust  it  through  his  heart,  but  only  at  the  third  attempt,  for  he  gave 
himself  two  blows  which  were  not  mortal.  He  fell  dead.  Meanwhile 
the  fish  came  in  from  all  quarters;  they  hunted  for  Vatel  to  give  it  out, 
went  to  his  room,  knocked,  broke  in  the  door,  and  found  him  drowned 
in  his  own  blood;  they  ran  to  M.  le  Prince  who  was  in  despair.  M.  le 
Due  wept;  his  whole  journey  in  Burgundy  depended  upon  Vatel.  M.  le 
Prince  told  the  news  to  the  King  very  sadly.  The  suicide  was  explained 
on  the  ground  that  he  had  his  own  sense  of  honor.  He  was  highly  praised 
and  his  courage  was  both  praised  and  blamed.  The  King  said  that  he 
had  delayed  his  visit  to  Chantilly  for  five  years  because  he  understood 
how  much  trouble  he  would  give.  He  told  M.  le  Prince  that  he  ought 
to  have  but  two  tables  and  not  to  undertake  everything;  and  he  declared 
that  he  would  no  longer  permit  the  Prince  to  act  thus;  but  it  was  too 
late  for  poor  Vatel.  Meanwhile  Gourville  tried  to  make  up  for  Vatel's 
loss;  and  succeeded.  They  dined  very  well,  they  had  a  collation  and 
supper,  they  walked  and  played  and  hunted.  It  was  all  perfumed  with 
jonquils  and  quite  enchanting.  Yesterday,  which  was  Saturday,  they 
did  about  the  same;  and  in  the  evening  the  King  went  to  Liancourt 
where  he  had  ordered  "media  moche,"  he  must  still  be  there  to-day.  This 
is  what  Moreuil  told  me  hoping  that  I  would  send  it  on  to  you.  I  toss 
my  cap  over  the  windmills  and  I  don't  know  any  more  about  it.  M.  d'Hac- 
queville,  who  was  there,  doubtless  will  tell  you  the  story,  but  as  his  hand- 
writing is  not  as  legible  as  mine,  I  am  writing  just  the  same;  and  if  I 
give  you  this  multitude  of  details  it  is  because  I  should  like  them  myself 
under  similar  circumstances. 

To  Madame  De  Grignan: 

Paris,  Monday 
February  5,  1674 

Many  years  ago  to-day,  daughter,  there  came  into  the  world  a  creature 

destined  to  love  you  above  everything.     I  beg  that  your  imagination 

will  not  step  either  to  right  nor  left.     Thai  man,  sire,  is  I  myself*    It 

was  three  years  ago  yesterday  that  I  experienced  one  of  the  keenest 

*  From  a  poem  by  Marot. 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH   1 8$ 

griefs  of  my  life.  You  went  to  Provence  where  you  still  are.  My  letter 
would  be  long  if  I  were  to  explain  to  you  all  the  anguish  which  I  felt  then, 
and  have  felt  ever  since  in  consequence  of  this  first  distress.  But  to 
return;  I  have  not  received, a  letter  from  you  to-day;  and  I  do  not  know 
If  one  will  come.  I  think  not  because  it  is  too  late.  I  am  awaiting  it 
impatiently  for  I  want  to  know  your  departure  from  Aix  so  that  I  may 
be  able  to  reckon  your  return  with  some  accuracy.  Everybody  is  killing 
me  with  questions  about  it  and  I  don't  know  what  to  answer.  I  think 
of  nothing  but  you  and  your  journey;  if  I  receive  your  letter  after  I  have 
sent  this  off,  be  assured  I  will  do  exactly  what  you  ask  me  to.  I  am  writ- 
ing to  you  to-day  a  little  earlier  than  usual.  M.  de  Corbinelli  et  Made- 
moiselle de  M6ry  are  here  and  have  dined  with  me.  I  am  going  to  a 
little  opera  by  Moliere,  the  father-in-law  of  d'ltier  who  sings  at  Pe- 
lissari's;  it  is  a  very  perfect  piece  of  music.  M.  le  Prince,  the  Duke,  and 
the  Duchess  will  be  there.  Perhaps  I  shall  go  from  there  to  take  supper 
at  Gourville's  with  Madame  de  La  Fayette,  the  Duke,  Madame  de  Thi- 
anges,  and  M.  de  Vivonne  to  whom  they  are  bidding  farewell  as  he  is 
leaving  to-morrow.  If  this  gathering  does  not  come  off  I  shall  go  to 
Madame  de  Chaulnes's;  I  have  been  strongly  urged  to  do  so  by  the 
hostess  and  by  the  cardinals  of  Retz  and  of  Bouillon  who  have  made 
me  promise  to  go;  the  former  is  extremely  impatient  to  see  you;  he  loves 
you  dearly.  I  enclose  a  letter  which  he  has  sent  me. 

They  thought  that  Mademoiselle  de  Blois  had  smallpox,  but  it  isn't 
so.  The  news  from  England  is  no  longer  talked  about,  which  makes 
one  think  that  it  is  not  good  news.  There  have  been  only  one  or  two 
balls  in  Paris  in  all  this  Carnival.  A  few  masqueraders  are  seen  but  not 
many.  Sadness  is  widespread;  the  gatherings  at  Saint-Germain  are  a 
mortification  to  the  King  and  merely  mark  the  movement  of  the  Car- 
nival. 

On  the  day  of  Our  Lady,  Father  Bourdaloue  preached  a  sermon  which 
delighted  everybody.  It  was  powerful  enough  to  make  courtiers  tremble; 
and  never  did  evangelist  preach  Christian  truths  in  so  exalted  a  tone  or 
so  nobly.  He  tried  to  make  it  evident  that  all  power  ought  to  be  sub- 
missive to  law,  as  in  the  instance  of  Our  Lord  who  was  presented  in  the 
Temple.  In  truth,  daughter,  it  was  brought  to  a  point  of  highest  per- 
fection and  certain  passages  were  uttered  as  they  might  have  been  ut- 
tered by  the  Apostle  St.  Paul. 

The  Archbishop  of  Reims  came  back  yesterday  at  great  speed  from 
Saint-Germain;  it  was  like  a  whirlwind.  He  is  of  the  opinion  that  he  is 
a  great  lord,  but  his  people  believe  it  even  more  than  he  does.  They  were 
passing  through  Xanterre,  tra,  tra,  Ira;  they  met  a  man  on  horseback. 


1 86  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

"Look  out!  Get  out  of  the  way!"  The  poor  man  was  willing  to  get 
out  of  the  way  but  his  horse  did  not  want  to  and  as  a  result  the  chariot 
and  its  six  horses  threw  the  poor  man  and  his  horse  head  over  heels  and 
ran  over  them,  and  that  so  thoroughly  that  the  chariot  itself  rolled  over 
and  over.  At  the  same  time  the  man  and  the  horse  instead  of  being 
pleased  at  being  run  down  and  crippled,  got  up,  wonderful  to  relate, 
mounted  one  upon  the  other,  fled,  and  are  still  running,  while  the  Arch- 
bishop's lackeys  and  coachman  and  the  Archbishop  himself  cried  out, 
"  Stop  him,  stop  the  rascal,  give  him  a  hundred  stripes !"  In  telling  about 
this  incident  the  Archbishop  said,  "If  I  had  caught  that  scamp  I  would 
have  broken  his  arms  and  cut  off  his  ears." 

I  dined  yesterday  again,  at  Gourville's,  with  Madame  de  Langeron, 
Madame  de  La  Fayette,  Madame  de  Voulanges,  Vorbinelli,  1'abbe  Tetu, 
and  my  son;  we  drank  your  health  and  appointed  a  da)7  to  entertain  you 
at  dinner.  Farewell,  dear  loving  daughter;  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  long 
for  you.  I  shall  address  this  letter  to  Lyons.  I  sent  two  earlier  ones  to 
the  chamarier;  it  seems  to  me  that  you  ought  to  be  there  now,  if  ever. 
I  have  just  this  moment  received  your  letter  of  the  28th;  it  delights  me. 
Do  not  fear,  my  good  child,  that  my  joy  will  grow  cold.  I  am  filled  with 
the  keenest  pleasure  at  seeing  you  and  receiving  you  and  embracing  you 
with  emotions  and  expressions  of  love  which  are  of  a  quality  out  of  the 
common  and  above  even  what  is  considered  highest. 

This  survey  of  the  literature  of  the  seventeenth  century 
though  slight,  will  show  that  it  was  'great'  in  the  same 
sense  that  the  century  was  'great.'  It  was  an  aristocratic 
literature  just  as  the  century  was  one  of  aristocratic  privilege 
and  of  royal  absolutism.  The  writers  were  chiefly  men  and 
women  of  rank  or  at  least  in  touch  with  the  court.  Their 
themes  were  such  as  would  interest  people  who  made  pre- 
tensions to  scholarship  or  who  liked  to  see  themselves  under 
the  thin  disguise  of  classic  names.  Moralists  dealt  with  the 
faults  and  foibles  common  to  a  human  nature  that  had  been 
subjected  to  such  refining  processes  as  were  then  known. 
When  the  poor  were  mentioned — the  subject  was  bravely 
introduced  once  in  a  while — it  was  by  way  of  arousing  in- 
dividual philanthropy.  Of  economic  discussion  there  was 
practically  none;  where  was  the  use?  Fenelon  was  almost 


THE  GREAT  CENTURY— THE  SEVENTEENTH       187 

alone  in  urging  the  political  remedy  of  calling  the  States 
General  and  it  needed  all  his  cleverness  and  popularity  to 
make  the  king  forgive  him. 

Style  was  made  exquisite  in  harmony  with  the  desire  for 
external  beauty  in  other  aspects  of  life;  what  literature 
lacked  in  ease  and  diversity  it  gained  in  precision  and  ele- 
gance. No  greater  names  than  Corneille,  Racine,  Moliere, 
La  Fontaine,  and  Boileau  have  appeared  in  all  French  litera- 
ture; there  are  but  few  that  approach  them.  That  they  were 
concentrated  at  this  time  put  France  at  the  head  of  literary 
Europe  as  it  was  when  its  chansons  de  geste  captured  ears 
and  hearts  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries.  The 
French  "genius"  was  at  its  best;  it  remained  for  the  next 
century  to  develop  its  soul. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES 

IN  the  description  of  literary  forms  up  to  this  time  drama 
has  been  scarcely  mentioned.  This  has  not  been  from  any 
lack  of  material,  for  the  body  of  French  literature  is  rich  in 
drama,  but  because  it  has  been  reserved  for  consideration  at 
the  time  when  dramatic  construction  reached  the  extreme 
of  accuracy  and  perfection  in  the  'classical'  drama  of  the 
seventeenth  century. 

The  French  spirit  is  in  its  very  essence  dramatic.  It  is 
fond  of  abstractions — and  good  drama  makes  visible  an 
abstract  idea;  it  is  alert  and  vivid — and  so  is  an  appealing 
play;  its  selective  power  is  sagacious — and  the  carrying 
quality  of  any  tragedy  or  comedy  is  due  to  judicious  choosing 
of  incidents  and  situations.  In  seeming  contradiction  French 
literature  is  not  only  rich  in  drama  but  in  psychological 
studies  which  demand  for  their  development  the  slower 
method  of  the  novel.  Yet  this  love  of  psychology  is  in  itself 
dramatic,  for  it  does  not  arise  from  a  Teutonic  hunger  for 
thorough  investigation  wherein  the  pleasure  lies  in  the  search 
itself,  but  from  a  keen  curiosity  as  to  the  causes  which  pro- 
duce results  in  human  life. 

The  origin  of  the  drama  seems  to  have  been  in  France,  as 
in  England,  in  the  church.  In  the  fourth  century  the  priests 
wrote  plays  based  on  Greek  models,  though  sometimes 
Christian  in  theme.  A  hundred  years  later  funerals  were 
enlivened  by  a  service  of  liturgical  responses  and  pantomime. 
From  the  tenth  century  on  the  church  developed  dramatic 
representations  of  the  Scriptures  with  increasing  scenic  ef- 

188 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES      189 

feet,  for  although  the  representations  were  given  inside  the 
churches  there  was  scenery.  In  the  twelfth  century  a  move- 
ment for  stirring  religious  enthusiasm  resulted  in  the  presen- 
tation by  laymen  and  in  the  streets  of  similar  religious  plays 
made  popular  by  being  given  in  French  and  with  elaborate 
scenery.  People  knew  what  Heaven  and  Hell  looked  like  in 
those  days  for  they  had  only  to  go  into  the  market  place  to 
see  them,  and  if  Heaven  was  not  any  more  attractive  than 
the  nearest  count's  garden,  Hell  was  very  terrible  indeed! 

The  crusades  furnished  material  for  a  thirteenth-century 
drama  which  must  have  had  a  sufficient  'news  interest,' 
and  Rutebeuf  *  the  pungent  wrote  the  "  Miracle  of  Theophi- 
lus"  with  all  his  unsparing  energy.  Theophilus  was  a  priest 
who  sold  his  soul  to  the  Devil,  but  was  rescued  by  the  Virgin 
Mary. 

Through  all  this  early  period  comedy  crops  out  not  only 
in  the  religious  plays  but  also  in  lay  productions  usually 
prepared  for  use  at  some  entertainment  given  by  a  noble. 
Adam  de  la  Halle,  one  of  whose  poems  has  been  quoted, 
wrote  in  the  last  half  of  the  thirteenth  century  the  first  real 
French  comedy — the  "Play  of  the  Bower." 

With  the  fourteenth  century,  torn  by  the  horrors  of  the 
English  wars,  by  pestilence,  and  by  roving  bands  of  desperate 
men,  there  developed  a  religious  drama  that  showed  a  certain 
aspiration.  Perhaps  the  cause  was  a  desire  for  relaxation, 
perhaps  a  hope  of  divine  intervention.  At  all  events  miracle 
plays,  which  became  'mysteries'  in  the  fifteenth  century, 
were  performed  by  strolling  troops  and  by  bands  of  players 
attached  to  noble  houses.  Of  the  plays  based  on  miracles 
performed  by  the  Virgin  Mary  forty  have  been  preserved  to 
us.  Many  of  them  are  tender  and  sympathetic  and  show  a 
spirit  which  is  also  to  be  found  in  a  few  secular  plays  of  the 
time  called  'moralities.'  One  of  these  moralities  enacts  the 

•  See  Chapter  III. 


190  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

history  of  that  patient  Griselda  whose  story  Chaucer  told  in 
the  Canterbury  Tales. 

A  summary  of  one  of  the  "Miracles  of  Our  Lady"  tells  the 
tale  of 

OUR  LADY'S  TUMBLER  * 

(Abridged  from  the  translation  of  Eugene  Mason) 

Now  therefore  will  I  say  and  narrate  what  chanced  to  this  minstrel. 

He  erred  up  and  down,  to  and  fro,  so  often  and  in  so  many  places,  that 
he  took  the  whole  world  in  despite,  and  sought  rest  in  a  certain  Holy 
Order  amongst  the  monks  of  Clairvau.x.  Now,  though  this  dancer  was 
comely  of  face  and  shapely  of  person,  yet  when  he  had  once  entered  the 
monastery  he  found  that  he  was  master  of  no  craft  practised  therein. 
In  the  world  he  had  gained  his  bread  by  tumbling  and  dancing  and  feats 
of  address.  To  leap,  to  spring,  such  matters  he  knew  well,  but  of  greater 
things  he  knew  nothing,  for  he  had  never  spelled  from  book — nor  Pater- 
noster, nor  canticle,  nor  creed,  nor  Hail  Mary,  nor  aught  concerning 
his  soul's  salvation. 

The  tumbler  moved  amongst  his  fellows  like  a  man  ashamed,  for  he 
had  neither  part  nor  lot  in  all  the  business  of  the  monastery,  and  for  this 
he  was  right  sad  and  sorrowful.  He  saw  the  monks  and  the  penitents 
about  him,  each  serving  God,  in  this  place  and  that,  according  to  his 
office  and  degree.  He  marked  the  priests  at  their  ritual  before  the  altars; 
the  deacons  at  the  gospels;  the  sub-deacons  at  the  epistles;  and  the  min- 
isters about  the  vigils.  He  gazes  earnestly,  if  so  he  is  able,  upon  each. 

"These  men  are  calling  on  the  mercy  of  God,  but  I — what  do  I  here? 
Here  there  is  none  so  mean  or  vile  but  who  serves  God  in  his  office  and 
degree,  save  only  me,  for  I  work  not,  neither  can  I  preach.  I  see  my 
brothers  upon  their  errands,  one  behind  the  other;  but  I  do  naught  but 
fill  my  belly  with  the  meat  that  they  provide.  Truly  am  I  a  caitif,  set 
in  a  high  place  for  a  sign." 

Driven  mad  with  thoughts  such  as  these,  he  wandered  about  the  abbey 
until  he  found  himself  within  the  crypt,  and  took  sanctuary  by  the  altar, 
crouching  close  as  he  was  able.  Above  the  altar  was  carved  the  statue 
of  Madame  St.  Mary.  When  he  heard  the  bells  ring  for  Mass  he  sprang 
to  his  feet  all  dismayed.  "Ha!"  said  he;  "now  am  I  betrayed.  Each 
adds  his  mite  to  the  great  offering,  save  only  me.  Shall  I  speak  my 

*  A  charming  version  of  this  story  is  given  in  verse  by  Katharine  Lee  Bates  in  "America 
the  Beautiful  and  Other  Poems."  Anatole  France  has  made  it  the  basis  of  his  "Jongleur 
de  Notre  Dame"  and  Massenet  has  put  it  in  opera  form. 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES  IQI 

thought?  Shall  I  work  my  will?  By  the  Mother  of  God,  thus  am  I  set 
to  do.  None  is  here  to  blame.  I  will  do  that  which  I  can,  and  honour 
with  my  craft  the  Mother  of  God  in  her  monastery.  Since  others  hon- 
our her  with  chant,  then  I  will  serve  with  tumbling." 

He  takes  off  his  cowl,  and  removes  his  garments,  placing  them  near 
the  altar,  but  so  that  his  body  be  not  naked  he  dons  a  tunic,  very  thin 
and  fine,  of  scarce  more  substance  than  a  shirt.  So,  light  and  comely 
of  body,  with  gown  girt  closely  about  his  loins,  he  comes  before  the 
Image  right  humbly.  Then  raising  his  eyes,  "Lady,"  said  he,  "to  your 
fair  charge  I  give  my  body  and  my  soul.  Sweet  Queen,  sweet  Lady, 
scorn  not  the  thing  I  know,  for  with  the  help  of  God  I  will  essay  to  serve 
you  in  good  faith,  even  as  I  may.  I  cannot  read  your  Hours  nor  chant 
your  praise,  but  at  the  least  I  can  set  before  you  what  art  I  have.  Now 
will  I  be  as  the  lamb  that  plays  and  skips  before  his  mother.  Oh,  Lady, 
who  art  nowise  bitter  to  those  who  serve  you  with  a  good  intent,  that 
which  thy  servant  is,  that  he  is  for  you." 

Then  commenced  he  his  merry  play,  leaping  low  and  small,  tall  and 
high,  over  and  under.  Then  once  more  he  knelt  upon  his  knees  before 
the  statue,  and  meekly  bowed  his  head.  "Ha!"  said  he,  "most  gracious 
Queen,  of  your  pity  and  your  charity  scorn  not  this  my  service."  Again 
he  leaped  and  played,  and  for  holiday  and  festival,  made  the  somer- 
sault of  Metz.  Again  he  bowed  before  the  Image,  did  reverence,  and 
paid  it  all  the  honour  that  he  might.  Afterwards  he  did  the  French 
vault,  then  the  vault  of  Champagne,  then  the  Spanish  vault,  then  the 
vaults  they  love  in  Brittany,  then  the  vault  of  Lorraine,  and  all  these 
feats  he  did  as  best  he  was  able.  Afterwards  he  did  the  Roman  vault, 
and  then,  with  hands  before  his  brow,  danced  daintily  before  the  altar, 
gazing  with  a  humble  heart  at  the  statue  of  God's  Mother.  "Lady," 
said  he,  "I  set  before  you  a  fair  play.  This  travail  I  do  for  you  alone; 
so  help  me  God,  for  you,  Lady,  and  your  Son.  Think  not  I  tumble  for 
my  own  delight;  but  I  serve  you,  and  look  for  no  other  guerdon  on  my 
carpet.  My  brothers  serve  you,  yea,  and  so  do  I.  Lady,  scorn  not  your 
villein,  for  he  toils  for  your  good  pleasure;  and,  Lady,  you  are  my  delight 
and  the  sweetness  of  the  world."  Then  he  walked  on  his  two  hands, 
with  his  feet  in  the  air,  and  his  head  near  the  ground.  He  twirled  with 
his  feet,  and  wept  with  his  eyes.  "Lady,"  said  he,  "I  worship  you  with 
heart,  with  body,  feet  and  hands,  for  this  I  can  neither  add  to  nor  take 
away.  Now  am  I  your  very  minstrel.  Others  may  chant  your  praises 
in  the  church,  but  here  in  the  crypt  will  I  tumble  for  your  delight.  Lady, 
lead  me  truly  in  your  way,  and  for  the  love  of  God  hold  me  not  in  utter 
despite."  Then  he  smote  upon  his  breast,  he  sighed  and  wept  most 


IQ2  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

tenderly,  since  he  knew  no  better  prayer  than  tears.  Then  he  turned  him 
about,  and  leaped  once  again.  "Lady,"  said  he,  "as  God  is  my  Saviour, 
never  have  I  turned  this  somersault  before.  Never  has  tumbler  done  such 
a  feat,  and,  certes,  it  is  not  bad.  Lady,  what  delight  is  his  who  may 
harbour  with  you  in  your  glorious  manor.  For  God's  love,  Lady,  grant 
me  such  fair  hostelry,  since  I  am  yours,  and  am  nothing  of  my  own." 
Once  again  he  did  the  vault  of  Metz;  again  he  danced  and  tumbled. 
Then  when  the  chants  rose  louder  from  the  choir,  he,  too,  forced  the  note, 
and  put  forward  all  his  skill.  So  long  as  the  priest  was  about  that  Mass, 
so  long  his  flesh  endured  to  dance,  and  leap  and  spring,  till  at  the  last, 
nigh  fainting,  he  could  stand  no  longer  upon  his  feet,  but  fell  for  weari- 
ness on  the  ground.  From  head  to  heel  sweat  stood  upon  him,  drop  by 
Hmr.,  as  blood  falls  from  meat  turning  upon  the  hearth.  "Lady,"  said 
he,  "I  can  no  more,  but  truly  will  I  seek  you  again."  Fire  consumed 
him  utterly.  He  took  his  habit  once  more,  and  when  he  was  wrapped 
close  therein,  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and  bending  low  before  the  statue, 
went  his  way.  "Farewell,"  said  he,  "gentlest  Friend.  For  God's  love 
take  it  not  to  heart,  for  so  I  may  I  will  soon  return.  Not  one  Hour  shall 
pass  but  that  I  will  serve  you  with  right  good  will,  so  I  may  come, 
and  so  my  service  is  pleasing  in  your  sight."  Thus  he  went  from  the 
crypt,  yet  gazing  on  his  Lady.  "Lady,"  said  he,  "my  heart  is  sore 
that  I  cannot  read  your  Hours.  How  would  I  love  them  for  love  of 
you,  most  gentle  Lady!  Into  your  care  I  commend  my  soul  and  my 
body." 

In  this  fashion  passed  many  days,  for  at  every  Hour  he  sought  the 
crypt  to  do  service,  and  pay  homage  before  the  Image.  His  service  was 
so  much  to  his  mind  that  never  once  was  he  too  weary  to  set  out  his  most 
cunning  feats  to  distract  the  Mother  of  God,  nor  did  he  ever  wish  for 
other  play  than  this.  Now,  doubtless,  the  monks  knew  well  enough 
that  day  by  day  he  sought  the  crypt,  but  not  a  man  on  earth — save  God 
alone — was  aware  of  aught  that  passed  there;  neither  would  he,  for  all 
the  wealth  of  the  world,  have  let  his  goings  in  be  seen,  save  by  the  Lord 
his  God  alone. 

Thus  things  went  well  with  this  good  man  for  a  great  space.  For  more 
years  than  I  know  the  count  of,  he  lived  greatly  at  his  ease,  but  the  time 
came  when  the  good  man  was  sorely  vexed,  for  a  certain  monk  thought 
upon  him,  and  blamed  him  in  his  heart  that  he  was  never  set  in  choir  for 
Matins.  So  he  spied  and  pried  and  followed,  till  he  marked  him  plainly, 
sweating  at  his  craft  in  just  such  fashion  as  you  have  heard. 

The  monk  went  straight  to  the  Abbot  and  told  him  the  thing  from  be- 
ginning to  end.  The  Abbot  got  him  on  his  feet,  and  said  to  the  monk, 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES  193 

"By  holy  obedience  I  bid  you  hold  your  peace,  and  tell  not  this  tale 
abroad  against  your  brother.  Come  now,  we  will  go  forthwith  to  see 
what  this  can  be."  Then  they  secretly  sought  the  crypt,  and  found  a 
privy  place  near  the  altar,  where  they  could  see,  and  yet  not  be  seen. 
From  there  the  Abbot  and  his  monk  marked  the  business  of  the  peni- 
tent. They  saw  the  vaults  he  varied  so  cunningly,  his  nimble  leaping 
and  his  dancing,  his  salutations  of  Our  Lady,  and  his  springing  and  his 
bounding,  till  he  was  nigh  to  faint.  So  weak  was  he  that  he  sank  on  the 
ground,  all  outworn,  and  the  sweat  fell  from  his  body  upon  the  pavement 
of  the  crypt.  But  presently,  in  this  his  need,  came  she,  his  refuge,  to  his 
aid.  Well  she  knew  that  guileless  heart. 

Whilst  the  Abbot  looked,  forthwith  there  came  down  from  the  vault 
a  Dame  so  glorious,  that  certainly  no  man  had  seen  one  so  precious,  nor 
so  richly  crowned.  She  was  more  beautiful  than  the  daughters  of  men, 
and  her  vesture  was  heavy  with  gold  and  gleaming  stones.  In  her  train 
came  the  hosts  of  Heaven,  angel  and  archangel  also;  and  these  pressed 
close  about  the  minstrel,  and  solaced  and  refreshed  him.  When  their 
shining  ranks  drew  near,  peace  fell  upon  his  heart;  for  they  contended 
to  do  him  service,  and  were  the  servants  of  the  servitor  of  that  Dame 
who  is  the  rarest  Jewel  of  God.  Then  the  sweet  and  courteous  Queen 
herself  took  a  white  napkin  in  her  hand,  and  with  it  gently  fanned  her 
minstrel  before  the  altar.  Courteous  and  debonair,  the  Lady  refreshed 
his  neck,  his  body  and  his  brow.  Meekly  she  served  him  as  a  handmaid 
in  his  need.  But  these  things  were  hidden  from  the  good  man,  for  he 
neither  saw  nor  knew  that  about  him  stood  so  fair  a  company. 

This  marvel  the  Abbot  and  his  monk  saw  at  least  four  times,  and  thus 
at  each  Hour  came  the  Mother  of  God  with  aid  and  succour  for  her  man. 
Never  doth  she  fail  her  servants  in  their  need.  Great  joy  had  the  Abbot 
that  this  thing  was  made  plain  to  him. 

Thus  time  went  and  returned,  till  it  chanced  that  in  a  little  while 
the  Abbot  sent  for  him  who  was  so  filled  with  virtue.  When  he  heard 
that  he  was  bidden  of  the  Abbot,  his  heart  was  sore  with  grief,  for  he 
could  think  of  nothing  profitable  to  say.  He  came  before  the  Abbot, 
with  the  tears  yet  wet  upon  his  cheeks,  and  he  was  still  weeping  when 
he  knelt  upon  the  ground.  "Lord,"  prayed  he,  "for  the  love  of  God 
deal  not  harshly  with  me.  Would  you  send  me  from  your  door?  Tell 
me  what  you  would  have  me  do,  and  thus  it  shall  be  done."  Then  re- 
plied the  Abbot,  "Answer  me  truly.  Winter  and  summer  have  you  lived 
here  for  a  great  space;  now,  tell  me,  what  service  have  you  given,  and 
how  have  you  deserved  your  bread?"  "Alas!"  said  the  tumbler,  "well 
I  knew  that  quickly  I  should  be  put  upon  the  street  when  once  this 


194  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

business  was  heard  of  you,  and  that  you  would  keep  me  no  more.  Lord," 
said  he,  "I  take  my  leave.  Miserable  I  am,  and  miserable  shall  I  ever 
be.  Never  yet  have  I  made  a  penny  for  all  my  juggling."  But  the  Abbot 
answered,  "Not  so  said  I;  but  I  ask  and  require  of  you — nay,  more,  by 
virtue  of  holy  obedience  I  command  you — to  seek  within  your  conscience 
and  tell  me  truly  by  what  craft  you  have  furthered  the  business  of  our 
monastery."  "Lord,"  cried  he,  "now  have  you  slain  me,  for  this  com- 
mandment is  a  sword."  Then  he  laid  bare  before  the  Abbot  the  story 
of  his  days,  from  the  first  thing  to  the  last,  whatsoever  pain  it  cost  him; 
not  a  word  did  he  leave  out,  but  he  told  it  all  without  a  pause,  just  as  I 
have  told  you  the  tale. 

The  holy  Abbot  leaned  above  him,  and,  all  in  tears,  raised  him  up, 
kissing  both  his  eyes.  "Brother,"  said  he,  "hold  now  your  peace,  for  I 
make  with  you  this  true  covenant,  that  you  shall  ever  be  of  our  monastery. 
And  now  I  pray  you,  my  sweet  friend,  and  lay  this  bidding  upon  you, 
without  pretence,  that  you  continue  to  do  your  service,  even  as  you  were 
wont  heretofore — yea,  and  with  greater  craft  yet,  if  so  you  may."  "Lord, 
said  he,  "truly  is  this  so?"  "Yea,"  said  the  Abbot,  "and  verily."  So 
he  charged  him,  under  peril  of  discipline,  to  put  all  doubts  from  his  mind; 
for  which  reason  the  good  man  rejoiced  so  greatly  that,  as  telleth  the 
rhyme,  he  was  all  bemused,  so  that  the  blood  left  his  cheeks,  and  his 
knees  failed  beneath  him.  When  his  courage  came  back,  his  very  heart 
thrilled  with  joy;  but  so  perilous  was  that  quickening  that  therefrom 
he  shortly  died.  But  theretofore  with  a  good  heart  he  went  about  his 
service  without  rest,  and  Matins  and  Vespers,  night  and  day,  he  missed 
no  Hour  till  he  became  too  sick  to  perform  his  office.  So  sore  was  his 
sickness  upon  him  that  he  might  not  rise  from  his  bed. 

The  Abbot  was  in  that  cell  with  all  his  monks;  there,  too,  was  com- 
pany of  many  a  priest  and  many  a  canon.  These  all  humbly  watched  the 
dying  man,  and  saw  with  open  eyes  this  wonder  happen.  Clear  to  their 
very  sight,  about  that  lowly  bed,  stood  the  Mother  of  God,  with  angel 
and  archangel,  to  wait  the  passing  of  his  soul.  Over  against  them  were 
set,  like  wild  beasts,  devils  and  the  Adversary,  so  they  might  snatch  his 
spirit.  I  speak  not  to  you  in  parable.  But  little  profit  had  they  for  all 
their  coming,  their  waiting,  and  their  straining  on  the  leash.  Never 
might  they  have  part  in  such  a  soul  as  his.  When  the  soul  took  leave 
of  his  body,  it  fell  not  in  their  hands  at  all,  for  the  Mother  of  God  gathered 
it  to  her  bosom,  and  the  holy  angels  thronging  round,  quired  for  joy,  as 
the  bright  train  swept  to  Heaven  with  its  burthen,  according  to  the  will 
of  God. 

Here  endeth  the  Tumbler  of  Our  Lady. 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES       195 

It  would  have  been  impossible  for  the  century'  that  brought 
to  pass  the  Reformation  and  in  which  the  Renaissance  was 
beginning  to  show  its  power  to  make  other  than  a  marked 
impress  on  the  stage.  Dramatic  representations  became 
more  popular  than  ever  and  the  actor's  profession  so  desirable 
that  corporations  of  actors  and  authors  were  formed.  The 
subjects  allowed  for  presentation  were,  however,  restricted 
by  the  religious  feeling  which  began  to  see  a  breach  of  good 
taste  if  not  of  verity  in  the  offering  of  sacred  beings,  even  of 
God  himself,  to  the  profane  gaze,  and  in  the  telling  of  holy 
stories  in  a  tone  not  always  reverential. 

One  of  the  companies  which  gave  its  energies  to  the  pro- 
duction of  comic  pieces  usually  full  of  local  allusions  and 
timely  hits  was  called  the  'Care-free  Children'  or  'Fools' 
('Sots') — their  productions,  'fooleries'  ('soties').  The  best 
soties  were  by  Pierre  Gringore,  quoted  elsewhere. 

Most  of  the  dramas  of  this  time  were  long,  without  com- 
pactness and  written  in  very  poor  verse.  The  religious  themes 
dared  not  be  lively;  the  soties  and  the  farces,  however,  satirize 
the  life  of  the  time  in  illuminating  fashion.  Already  that 
most  popular  of  all  subjects,  domestic  infelicity,  was  frequent. 
Again  the  moralities  flourished,  not  far  distant  in  subject 
from  the  social  sotie. 

Best  of  all  the  century's  production  is  the  farce,  "LAWYER 
PATHELIN,"  which  had  a  great  vogue  for  a  hundred  years  and 
more.  The  first  scene  discloses  the  poorly-furnished  house 
of  Pathelin  with  the  lawyer  and  his  wife  Guillemette  lament- 
ing their  poverty. 

Palhelin.  Holy  Mary!  I  toil  and  I  cheat: 

Fair  play  and  foul;  by  work  and  deceit: 

And  yet  'tis  certain,  my  Guillemette, 

Whatever  I  do,  no  richer  we  get. 
Guillemette.  Yes:  and  what's  worse,  the  neighbours  aver, 

You  are  not  so  wise,  by  half,  as  you  were: 


196  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

You  that  everyone  used  to  seek — 
So  crafty,  so  cunning,  so  clever  to  speak — 
Wait  now,  neglected  by  all  the  folk, 
And  they  call  you  the  "Advocate  under  the  oak."  * 
Pathelin.  Yet — I  say  it  in  sorrow,  not  pride — 
There  is  not  through  all  the  country  side, 
In  learning  and  wit  a  man  my  compare — 
Always  excepting  his  Worship  the  Mayor. 

Guillemette.  And  if  you  are  learned,  where  is  the  good? 
The  larder  is  empty;  we  have  no  food. 
Look  at  our  clothes,  they  are  all  in  rags: 
When  will  your  wisdom  replenish  your  bags? 

Possessed  of  a  brilliant  idea  Pathelin,  in  scene  two,  visits 
the  shop  of  the  draper,  at  the  fair.  Before  taking  up  the  real 
business  of  his  call  he  ingratiates  himself  with  the  tradesman 
by  inquiring  about  his  relatives. 

Ha! — well.    What  a  man!  what  a  wonderful  brain! 

God  keep  his  soul — your  father's,  I  mean. 

What  a  merchant,  too,  so  thoughtful,  so  wise, 

(Upon  my  word,  you  have  the  same  eyes). 

If  God  have  mercy  on  any,  why  then 

He  surely  will  pity  your  father. 
Draper.  Amen. 
Pathelin.  Dear,  dear — a  hundred  times,  ay,  more, — 

Truly  and  fully  he  told  me  before, 

The  times  that  were  coming,  the  very  events: 

Even  then  he  was  reckoned     .     .     . 
Draper.  Sir,  no  offence: 

Forgive  my  rudeness — be  seated,  I  pray. 
Pathelin.  I  do  very  well  as  I  am,  but  .  .  . 
Draper.  Nay — 

Be  seated,  I  beg  you. 
Pathelin.  To  please  you — ah,  well! 

None  other  than  marvels  he  used  to  foretell. 

You'll  see  when  I  tell  you— Good  Heavens!  'tis  strange, 

From  father  to  son  I  perceive  no  change. 

His  father  exactly,  the  eyes  and  the  nose, 

•  "Avocat  sous  I'nrme,"  i.  e.  one  whose  only  office  was  the  shade  of  the  elm  in  the  vil- 
lage square. 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES      197 

The  very  same  dimples  the  same  lips  disclose: 

Hard  set  for  a  quarrel  he'd  be,  in  truth, 

Who  would  dare  to  maintain  that  you,  forsooth, 

Are  not  your  own  father's  son.    That  nature 

So  should  imitate  every  feature 

Is  passing  wondrous — so  we  are  made — 

Your  aunt  Laurentia — is  she  yet  dead? 
Draper.  No. 
Pathdin.  I  am  glad:  ah!  she  was  a  belle, 

Tall  and  graceful;  just  your  shape,  well — 

In  all  the  country,  search  it  over — 

Such  a  race  as  yours  'twere  hard  to  discover. 

The  more  I  see  you,  the  more  I  recall 

The  face  of  your  father — God  rest  his  soul! 

Two  drops  of  water  are  not  more  alike. 

How  brave  he  was — so  ready  to  strike! 

How  worthy  a  creature — so  glad  to  lend 

His  money  to  any  deserving  friend. 

And  how  he  laughed!  all  out  of  his  heart. 

Would  that  the  worst  man  in  this  part 

Only  resembled  him.    My  brother, 

We  shouldn't  then  be  cheating  each  other 

As  we  do  now  (Takes  up  a  piece  of  cloth.) 

What  capital  cloth! 

I  never  saw  stuff  so  soft  and  smooth. 
Draper.  From  my  own  sheep's  wool  that  cloth  is  made. 
Pathelin.  Is  it?    How  clever  he  is  at  his  trade! 
Draper.  Well,  one  must  labour  if  one  would  thrive. 
Pathelin.  Tis  true,  most  true.    As  I'm  alive, 

I  cannot  resist  this  beautiful  stuff, 

I  came  not  to  buy — but  there,  enough. 

Eighty  crowns  I  had  laid  aside 

For  another  purpose;  but  now,  if  I  tried 

I  could  not  avoid  leaving  twenty  with  you. 

I  must  have  a  coat,  and  my  Guillemette,  too, 

She  shall  have  a  gown.    The  longer  I  gaze, 

The  more  I  like  it. 
Draper.  Just  as  you  please, 

Only  this  cloth  is  as  dear  as  cream, 

Twenty  francs  will  go  like  a  dream. 
Pathelin.  I  don't  care,  let  it  cost  what  it  will. 


198  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

To  save  the  draper  the  trouble  of  delivering  his  goods 
Pathelin  puts  the  cloth  under  his  arm  and  goes  home  to  work 
out  the  rest  of  his  scheme  while  William  chuckles  over  the 
unduly  large  price  that  he  has  charged. 

Guillemette,  in  scene  three,  agrees  to  enter  into  her  hus- 
band's plan,  and  Pathelin  goes  to  bed.  When  the  draper 
arrives  the  lawyer  is  apparently  in  a  state  of  delirium  and 
his  wife  insists  so  vehemently  that  he  has  not  left  the  house 
for  eleven  weeks  that  William  is  persuaded  that  he  must 
have  dreamed  the  whole  transaction.  Yet  after  he  has 
measured  his  cloth  and  found  six  ells  missing  he  returns,  only 
to  find  Pathelin  raving  so  gloriously  in  a  generous  variety  of 
dialects  that  the  draper  believes  that  he  is  at  the  point  of 
death  and  that  his  own  deception  is  an  act  of  the  Devil. 

The  second  act  brings  retribution  upon  the  lawyer.  The 
draper  hales  into  court  his  shepherd,  Thibault  Aignelet,  who 
has  been  killing  his  sheep  for  years.  The  shepherd  engages 
Pathelin  to  defend  him  and  that  ingenious  worthy  advises 
him  to  play  the  imbecile  and  bleat  a  reply  to  every  question. 
This  device  is  aided  unconsciously  by  the  draper  who  so 
frequently  rambles  off  into  confused  talk  about  the  theft  of 
his  cloth  that  the  judge  repeatedly  tells  him  to  "return  to 
his  sheep"  in  the  phrase  of  the  famous  proverb,  "revcnons  d. 
nos  moutons"  and  at  last  pronounces  against  him.  Pathelin 
plumes  himself  upon  the  successful  conduct  of  the  case,  but 
when  he  tries  to  collect  his  fee  from  the  shepherd  he  is  met  by 
the  imbecile  "Baa"  which  Thibault  was  bright  enough  to 
bring  to  bear  upon  more  than  one  situation. 

Pathelin.  Now,  Aignelet,  is  your  business  done? 

Aignelet.  Bee. 

Palhelin.  The  cause  is  finished;  the  judge  is  gone: 

Don't  say  bie  any  more,  my  friend. 

Did  I  not  counsel  you  well  to  the  end? 

Did  I  not  play  him  a  turn,  eh? 
Aignelet.  Bfe. 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES      199 

Palhelin.  There:  there:  no  one  will  hear  you.    Say, 

Speak  out  plainly:  don't  be  afraid. 
Aignelet.  B£e. 

Palhelin.  Tis  time  for  me  to  be  paid. 
Aignelet.  Bee. 
Pathelin.  Very  well  you  have  played  your  part, 

Your  grave  face  went  to  the  judge's  heart. 
Aignelet.  B6e. 
Pathelin.  Don't  say  that  any  more,  I  beseech. 

Pay  me  now. 
Aignelet.  Bee. 

Patlielin.  Recover  speech. 

Pay  me  at  once  and  let  me  go. 
Aignelet.  B6e. 
Pathelin.  No  more  b£eing.    That  will  do. 

I  don't  like  trifling.    Pay  me  my  fee. 
Aignelet.  B6e. 
Pathelin.  You  mean  to  mock  me?  you  mock  me  ? 

I  swear  you  shall  pay  me  at  once — Here! — Give. 
Aignelet.  Bee. 
Pathelin.  You  dare  laugh  at  me?  (aside}  As  I  live, 

'Tis  all  I  am  likely  to  get. 

My  friend,  if  you  bee  to  gratify 

Yourself,  pray  say  so — but  think  that  I 

Would  rather  not  talk  more.    But  come, 

Will  you  take  your  supper  with  me  at  home? 
Aignelet.  Be'e. 
Pathelin.  By  St.  John,  he  b6e's  at  his  ease. 

For  once  the  goslings  lead  the  geese. 

(Aside)  Now  I  thought  myself  the  king  of  all  cheats: 

Doctor  in  quibbles,  prince  of  deceits, 

Giver  of  words  and  bonds  to  pay, 

To  be  redeemed — on  Judgment-day — 

And  a  simple  rustic  defeats  my  claims. 

The  drama  of  the  sixteenth  century  is  of  marked  medioc- 
rity. Its  only  notability  is  its  reflection  of  the  Italian  spirit 
which  introduced  subjects  borrowed  from  antiquity  and 
treatment  beloved  by  antiquity,  and  bound  itself  by  classical 


200  THE   SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

rules.  Titles  sound  like  a  roster  of  Greek  and  Roman  plays, 
composition  follows  the  ancient  mingling  of  declamation  and 
chorus,  and  construction  is  according  to  the  rules  which 
were  laid  down  centuries  before  in  Horace's  "Ars  Poetica." 
The  poets  of  the  Pleiade  did  their  lyric  best  for  drama, 
Alexander  Hardy  in  the  early  seventeenth  century  provided 
all  sorts  of  plays  in  unstinted  quantity,  and  at  last  PIERRE 
CORNEILLE  (1606-1684)  hung  the  already  established  classic 
forms  with  the  swelling  rhetoric  of  an  abundant  genius.  The 
power  of  the  will  in  its  ability  to  initiate  great  actions  is  the 
basic  motive  of  all  Corneille's  tragedies.  Of  these  the  "Cid" 
has  been  the  most  admired. 

The  classical  drama  furnishes  the  typical  form  of  dramatic 
construction.  A  play  may  be  built  upon  the  same  simple 
specifications  as  is  "(Edipus  Tyrannus"  or  it  may  show  the 
mixed  motive  and  the  complexity  of  "Hernani,"  but  the 
frame- work  is  the  same.  The  type  calls  for  five  acts:  Act  I, 
Introduction;  Act  II,  Rising  Action;  Act  III,  Climax;  Act  IV, 
Falling  Action;  Act  V,  Catastrophe.  The  first  act,  besides 
performing  the  various  offices  of  an  introduction,  holds  the 
Exciting  Cause  and  the  Exciting  Force.  The  turning  point 
between  the  Rising  and  Falling  Actions,  the  Climax,  is  found 
in  the  third  act.  The  Tragic  Force  initiates  the  Falling  Action 
as  the  Exciting  Force  does  the  Rising  Action.  The  Force  of 
Final  Suspense  affords  a  relief  scene  before  the  Catastrophe. 

Corneille's  "Cid,"  while  not  absolutely  regular,  is,  never- 
theless, an  illuminating  example  of  structure.  Its  analysis 
will  illustrate  the  above  definitions,  and  will  also  give  an 
idea  of  its  merits. 

Act  I,  Introduction.  The  purposes  of  dramatic  introduc- 
tion are  five-fold.  It  must  put  the  audience  (i)  in  possession 
of  the  environment  of  the  play,  (2)  of  the  causes  of  the  action, 
and  (3)  of  the  emotional  mood  of  the  piece;  it  must  (4)  fore- 
shadow the  progress  of  the  action,  and  it  must  (5)  present 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES       201 

the  characters,  either  actually  or  by  hearsay.  All  these  ex- 
pectations are  fulfilled  in  this  play  whose  beautiful  versifica- 
tion gave  rise  to  the  saying,  " Beautiful  as  the  ' Cid.'"  Here 
is  the  story  of  the  first  act.  Chimene,  the  heroine,  has  two 
suitors,  Rodrigue  (afterwards  called  the  Cid)  and  Sanche. 
She  loves  Rodrigue,  whose  suit  is  looked  upon  favorably 
by  her  father,  Don  Gomez.  Unfortunately  for  the  smooth 
course  of  true  love  the  King  chooses  as  his  son's  governor 
Don  Diego,  Rodrigue's  father,  instead  of  Don  Gomez,  and 
the  disappointed  Count  quarrels  with  his  former  friend  and 
strikes  him.  Don  Diego  is  too  old  to  avenge  the  insult  per- 
sonally, and  Rodrigue  finds  himself  in  the  position  of  being 
obliged  to  vindicate  his  father's  honor  upon  the  person  of  the 
father  of  the  girl  he  loves. 

(1)  Environment.    That  the  setting  of  the  piece  is  amid 
the  jealousies  and  love  intrigues  of  the  court,  with  honor  and 
passion  and  jealousy  of  the  Spanish  stamp,  and  with  temper 
close  to  the  skin,  is  made  clear  long  before  the  act  closes. 

(2)  Causes.    With  admirable  promptness,  too,  by  means 
of  that  useful  person,  the  confidante,  the  relations  existing 
between  Chimene  and  Rodrigue,  and  Don  Gomez's  attitude 
toward  the  lovers  is  brought  out  in  the  four  lines  that  begin 
the  first  act. 

Chimene.   Elvire,  have  you  given  me  a  really  true  report?      You  are 

hiding  nothing  of  what  my  father  said? 
Elvire.   I  am  delighted  with  his  attitude;  he  esteems  Rodrigo  as  highly 

as  you  love  him. 

The  rival  suitor,  Don  Sanche,  is  mentioned  in  the  fourteenth 
line,  and  Don  Gomez's  expectations  with  regard  to  the  young 
Prince  are  made  clear  before  fifty  lines  have  fallen  on  the  ear. 
Exciting  Cause  and  Exciting  Force.  The  quarrel  between 
the  two  fathers  resulting  upon  the  king's  choice  of  a  tutor  for 
his  son  contains  the  Exciting  Cause,  which  is  the  origin  of 


202  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

the  action  of  the  play.    This  Exciting  Cause  is  the  blow  given 
by  Don  Gomez  to  Don  Diego. 

Count  de  Gormes  (Chimene's  father).  You  have  carried  off  the  prize  that 

I  deserved. 

Don  Diego  (Rodrigue's  father).  He  who  won  the  prize  deserved  it  most. 
The  Count.  He  who  can  use  it  best  is  most  worthy  of  it. 
Don  Diego.  To  be  refused  it  is  not  a  good  sign  of  worthiness. 
The  Count.  You  are  an  old  courtier  and  won  it  by  intrigue. 
Don  Diego.  The  brilliancy  of  my  noble  deeds  was  my  only  advocate. 
The  Count.  Let  us  rather  say  that  the  king  pays  honor  to  your  age. 
Don  Diego.  He  is  more  in  the  habit  of  honoring  courage. 
The  Count.  For  which  reason  the  honor  was  all  the  more  due  to  me. 
Don  Diego.  He  who  failed  to  receive  it  did  not  deserve  it. 
The  Count.  Did  not  deserve  it?    I! 
Don  Diego.  You. 
The  Count.  Your  impudence,  rash  old  man,  shall  have  its  reward  (He 

strikes  him  in  the  face). 

The  Exciting  Force  is  Rodrigue's  resolution  to  avenge  his 
father,  even  at  the  expense  of  his  love — an  act  of  will  that 
sets  the  action  into  motion.  In  the  course  of  a  long  soliloquy 
Rodrigue  says: 

What  bitter  conflict  do  I  feel!  My  love  strives  against  my  honor.  I 
must  avenge  my  father  and  lose  the  lady  of  my  love.  The  one  thought 
stirs  my  heart,  the  other  restrains  my  arm.  Reduced  to  the  sad  choice 
of  betraying  my  love  or  living  in  infamy  my  lot  is  made  as  wretched  by 
one  decision  as  by  the  other.  Ah,  Heaven,  how  strange  a  difficulty  con- 
fronts me?  Must  I  let  an  insult  pass  unpunished?  Must  I  punish  Chi- 
mene's father? 

He  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  in  either  case  he  will  lose 
Chimene  for  she  will  despise  him  if  he  fails  to  avenge  the 
slight  put  upon  the  honor  of  his  house,  and  hate  him  if  he 
enters  into  combat  with  her  father.  And  then  he  makes  the 
crucial  decision:  "Let  us  hasten  to  vengeance." 

(3)  Emotional  Note.  In  the  "Cid"  Corneille  manipulates 
with  a  master's  skill  the  spiritual  contest  that  seems  to  have 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES  203 

made  the  strongest  appeal  to  him — the  struggle  between  love 
and  duty,  between  primitive  passion  and  natural  obligation. 
This  note  is  struck  in  a  secondary  expression  of  the  theme  by 
the  Infanta,  who  loves  Rodrigue,  yet  feels  that  the  demands 
of  her  exalted  position  do  not  permit  her  entertaining  an 
affection  for  him.  It  bursts  out  in  full  emotional  sweep  when 
Rodrigue  in  impassioned  verse  weighs  the  cry  of  his  heart 
against  the  call  of  his  honor. 

Father,  mistress,  honor,  love!  Noble  yet  harsh  alternative,  beloved 
bondage;  either  my  happiness  is  dead  or  my  honor  is  sullied;  one  makes 
me  wretched,  the  other  makes  me  unworthy  of  life. 

(4)  Dramatic  Foreshadowing.     Full  of  suggestion  is  the 
line  "Let  us  hasten  to  vengeance,"  for  it  foreshadows  the 
hero's  purpose  and  connotes  a  wide  field  of  possibilities. 

(5)  Presentation  of  the  Characters.    The  last  duty  of  the 
introduction — to  present  the  important  characters  of  the 
play  to  the  audience — this  first  act  performs.    Of  the  twelve 
actors  in  the  cast,  eight  appear.     Of  the  other  four,  two, 
Sanche  and  the  King,  are  mentioned.    It  is  only  two  unim- 
portant characters,  noblemen  of  the  Court,  who  are  not 
touched. 

Rising  Action.  The  Rising  Action  of  a  drama  begins  as 
soon  as  the  hero  has  made  the  resolution  that  is  the  Exciting 
Force,  and  it  extends  to  the  Climax,  which  should  be  some- 
where in  the  last  half  of  the  third  act.  The  interest  should 
be  progressive  and  the  opposing  forces  must  be  introduced. 
Here  is  the  way  in  which  Corneille  complies  with  this  re- 
quirement in 

Acts  II  aiid  III.  Even  the  solicitations  of  the  King  fail  to 
persuade  Don  Gomez  to  apologize  for  the  insult  he  has  in- 
flicted upon  his  former  friend,  and  a  quarrel  between  him  and 
Rodrigue  is  a  necessary  consequence.  In  the  duel  that  follows 
Rodrigue  kills  his  sweetheart's  father.  Chimene  demands 


204  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

vengeance  from  the  King,  even  to  Rodrigue's  head,  for  now 
comes  her  struggle  between  her  love  and  what  she  considers 
her  duty. 

Climax.  In  a  scene  of  wonderful  power  which  Sainte-Beuve 
calls  the  finest  in  Corneille,  both  hero  and  heroine  reach  an 
emotional  climax.  Rodrigue  begs  Chimene  to  kill  him  with 
the  sword  that  had  slain  her  father.  Chimene's  love  cannot 
make  this  Spartan  sacrifice  to  vengeance,  but  she  has  de- 
clared her  purpose  toward  Rodrigue  to  be: 

To  support  my  self-respect  and  end  my  misery,  to  pursue  him,  to 
destroy  him — and  then  to  die  after  him. 

Even  this  brief  outline  will  show  that  the  interest  is  pro- 
gressive, rising  as  it  does,  from  the  quarrel  to  the  murder,  and 
then  turning  from  the  external  to  the  always  greater  soul 
interest,  the  struggle  between  the  opposing  forces  of  passion- 
ate love  and  the  call  of  duty  as  it  touches  the  preservation 
of  the  family  honor.  The  height  of  the  Climax  lies  in  the 
lovers'  common  cry  of  purpose  and  of  renunciation! 

Rodrigue.  Farewell.    I  go  to  drag  out  a  miserable  life  until  such  time 

as  your  pursuit  shall  deprive  me  of  it. 
Chimene.  If  I  gain  my  end  I  pledge  you  my  faith  to  live  not  a  moment 

after  you. 

Tragic  Force.  The  Falling  Action  must  be  set  in  motion  by 
the  Tragic  Force.  This  Force,  like  the  Exciting  Force  is  an 
act  of  volition  on  the  part  of  the  death-seeking  hero.  It 
comes  toward  the  end  of  the  third  act  when  Rodrigue  says, 
"Unable  to  leave  Chimene  nor  yet  to  win  her  the  death 
which  I  seek  is  a  more  welcome  suffering." 

Rodrigue  is  urged  by  his  father  at  least  to  make  his  death 
glorious  by  falling  in  defense  of  his  people  and  his  King.  He 
determines  to  lead  a  band  against  the  Moors  who  have  boldly 
approached  the  city. 

Act  IV.  Falling  Action.     The  Falling  Action  is  the  out- 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES      205 

come  of  the  Rising  Action  and  is  its  counter-part  in  leading 
up  to  the  Catastrophe,  as  the  Rising  Action  leads  to  the 
Climax.  The  Falling  Action  of  the  "Cid"  deals  with  Rod- 
rigue's  defeat  of  the  invaders  in  a  fight  that  does  not  bring 
him  his  wished-for  death.  Chimene  is  proud  of  his  valor  but 
is  unappeased  and  demands  that  he  be  forced  to  meet  a 
champion,  to  whom  she  promises  her  hand  if  he  conquers 
Rodrigue.  The  King,  however,  decrees  that  she  shall  marry 
the  victor,  whichever  he  be. 

Act  V.  In  the  fifth  act  Rodrigue  comes  to  say  farewell  to 
Chimene,  meaning  to  make  no  contest  against  her  defender, 

Don  Sanche. 

I  go  to  death  and  not  to  combat. 

But  Chimene,  repenting  her  of  her  promise,  implores  him  to 

fight. 

Defend  yourself,  and  take  me  from  Don  Sanche 

and  begs 

Be  the  victor  in  this  contest  whose  prize  is  Chim&ie. 

Final  Suspense.  The  "Force  of  Final  Suspense"  is  applied 
in  a  relief  scene  before  the  catastrophe.  Don  Sanche  brings 
to  Chimene  a  dripping  sword,  and  she  thinks  that  he  has 
killed  Rodrigue.  Frantic  she  claims  from  the  King  the 
privilege  of  withdrawing  to  a  convent  where  she  may  mourn 
her  love  sacrificed  to  her  duty. 

Catastrophe.  But  Rodrigue  is  not  dead,  and  the  King 
insists  upon  the  fulfilment  of  his  decree — upon  the  betrothal 
of  Chimene  and  Rodrigue.  This  is  not  a  typical  Catastrophe, 
for  that  would  have  demanded  a  sad  ending  as  a  logical  con- 
clusion. 

The  "unities"  of  time,  place,  and  circumstance  whose 
laws  were  laid  down  by  Aristotle,  demanded  that  the  events 
of  a  tragedy  should  be  limited  to  what  might  happen  in 
twenty-four  hours,  that  the  scene  should  be  laid  in  but  one 


206  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

place,  and  that  the  action  should  hold  but  one  catastrophe. 
The  nature  of  the  theme  of  the  "Cid"  made  the  strict  follow- 
ing of  these  rules  a  heavy  tax  on  the  hearers'  sense  of  prob- 
ability. That  Rodrigue  should  step  from  battle  into  single 
combat  with  Sanche  after  a  rest  of  but  an  hour  or  two,  and, 
when  he  won,  that  Chimene  should  be  betrothed  by  royal 
command  to  the  slayer  of  her  father  within  twenty-four  hours 
after  his  death  was  crowding  events  to  say  the  least.  The  law 
of  place  was  more  closely  followed,  for  the  scenes  are  all  in 
Seville,  but  they  were  not  strictly  in  accordance  with  custom 
for  they  called  on  the  imagination  to  see  different  spots  which 
would  be  represented  on  the  modern  stage  by  changes  of 
scenery.  Singleness  of  action  came  nearer  to  accomplishment. 

Corneille  was  put  in  the  position  of  being  forced  to  defend 
himself  against  the  critics  who  regarded  his  construction  as 
loose,  but  it  is  evident  that  he  tried  to  reconcile  the  demands 
of  what  was  really  a  romantic  plot  with  what  was  considered 
correct  at  the  moment.  His  later  work  shows  even  greater 
obedience  to  the  laws. 

The  production  of  the  "Cid"  created  much  feeling  which 
was  fostered  by  Richelieu,  who  was  either  jealous  of  his  suc- 
cess or  else  did  not  approve  some  of  the  feudal  ideas  of  the 
play.  The  drama  won  the  people,  however;  in  it  Corneille, 
who  had  been  trying  his  hand  on  comedies  and  other  literary 
forms  for  several  years,  found  his  real  bent,  and  by  it  he  es- 
tablished a  reputation  as  one  of  France's  greatest  dramatic 
poets,  which  was  enhanced  by  every  one  of  his  later  produc- 
tions. 

French  criticism  has  long  wavered  between  the  claims  of 
Corneille  and  of  Racine  to  wear  the  laurels  of  the  nation's 
greatest  writer  of  tragedy.  At  one  time  Corneille  has  been 
favored,  at  another  Racine.  Possibly  the  more  intimate 
personal  revelations  of  Racine's  characters  rouse  feelings  of 
friendliness  which  are  somewhat  chilled  by  the  grand  struggles 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES  207 

of  the  older  poet.  His  psychology  studies  the  action  of 
various  passions — love,  ambition,  hatred — upon  the  individ- 
ual. JEAN  RACINE  (1639-1699)  was  a  man  of  court  position 
who  had  been  a  pupil  at  Port  Royal.  His  style  is  luminous, 
his  thought  aspiring,  his  technique  exact  according  to  class- 
ical rules.  After  many  early  successes  one  of  his  plays  was 
not  received  enthusiastically,  thanks  to  the  schemes  of  his 
enemies,  and  he  was  so  wounded  by  what  he  thought  was  the 
public  coldness  that  for  many  years  he  wrote  nothing.  At 
last  Madame  de  Maintenon  induced  him  to  break  his  silence 
and  compose  a  play  to  be  acted  by  the  girls  at  Saint-Cyr. 
The  result  was  "  Esther"  and  this  was  followed  by  "  Athalie," 
written  for  the  same  performers  and  pronounced  the  best  of 
all  the  great  dramatist's  list. 

*  ATHALIAH 

CHARACTERS 

JOASH,  King  of  Judah  and  Son  of  Ahaziah. 

ATHALIAH,  Widow  of  Joram,  and  Grandmother  of  Joash. 

JEHOIADA,  the  High  Priest. 

JEHOSHEBA,  Aunt  of  Joash,  and  Wife  of  the  High  Priest. 

ZACHARIAH,  Son  of  Jehoiada  and  Jehosheba. 

SALOME,  Sister  of  Zachariah. 

ABNER,  one  of  the  Chief  Officers  of  the  Kings  of  Judah. 

AZARIAH,  ISHUAEL,  and  the  three  other  Chiefs  >>f  the  Priests  and  Levitts. 

MATTAN,  an  Apostate  priest;  Chief  Priest  of  Baal. 

NABAL,  confidential  Friend  of  Mattan. 

HACAR,  an  Attendant  of  Athaliah. 

Band  of  Priests  and  Leoites. 

Attendants  of  Athaliah. 

Xurse  of  Joash. 

Chorus  of  young  Maidens  of  the  Tribe  of  Levi. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  Temple  at  Jerusalem,  in  an  ante-chamber  of  the  High  Priest's 
dwelling. 

ACT  I 
Scene  i 


Yea,  to  the  Temple  of  the  Lord  I  come, 

To  worship  with  the  solemn  rites  of  old, 

To  celebrate  with  thee  the  famous  day 

When  from  the  holy  mount  our  Law  was  giv'n. 

•  Abridged  from  translation  by  R.  Bruce  Boswell.  Courtesy  of  The  Macmillan  Company. 


208  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

How  times  are  changed!    Soon  as  the  sacred  trump 
With  joyous  blast  announced  this  day's  return, 
The  Temple  porticoes,  with  garlands  gay, 
Could  not  contain  the  crowds  of  the  devout; 
Before  the  altar  they  in  order  due, 
Bringing  the  earliest  harvest  of  their  fields, 
Offered  those  firstfruits  to  the  Lord  of  all; 
Nor  were  there  priests  enough  for  sacrifice. 

A  woman's  will  has  'dared  to  check  these  throngs, 
And  turn'd  the  day's  bright  glory  into  gloom. 
Scarce  dare  a  few  most  zealous  worshippers 
Recall  for  us  some  shadow  of  the  past; 
The  rest  are  all  forgetful  of  their  God, 
Or,  e'en  to  Baal's  altars  flocking  now, 
In  shameful  orgies  learn  to  bear  their  part, 
And  curse  the  Name  on  which  their  fathers  call'd. 
My  soul  is  troubled, — naught  will  I  conceal—- 
Lest Athaliah  visit  upon  thee 
Her  vengeance,  spurn  all  remnant  of  respect, 
And  tear  thee  from  the  altar  of  the  Lord. 

Abner  fears  that  Athalie  will  destroy  the  temple  and  put  to  death  the 
high  priest. 

JEHOIADA 

He  who  enchains  the  fury  of  the  waves 
Knows  how  to  curb  the  plots  of  wicked  men. 
Submitting  humbly  to  His  holy  will, 
I  fear  my  God,  and  know  no  other  fear. 
And  yet,  I  thank  thee,  Abner,  for  thy  zeal 
That  o'er  my  peril  keeps  a  watchful  eye. 

Abner  should  not  complain  but  should  act.  To  Abner's  objection 
reply  is  made  by  Jehoiada. 

JEHOIADA 

Yet  when  did  miracles  abound  as  now? 

When  by  more  signs  has  God  display'd  His  power? 

Abner  replies  that  there  is  no  longer  hope  since  the  race  of  David  is 
extinguished.  Jehoiada  bids  him  hope  and  come  back  to  the  temple  a 
little  later. 

Scene  2 

Jehoiada  tells  Jehosheba  that  the  day  has  come  to  proclaim  Joash  King 
of  the  Jews.  Jehosheba  tells  how  she  saved  him  before. 

JEHOSHEBA 

Ah!  his  sad  state  when  Heaven  gave  him  me 
Returns  each  moment  to  alarm  my  soul. 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES  209 

With  slaughter'd  princes  was  the  chamber  full; 
Dagger  in  hand,  th'  inexorable  Queen 
To  bloodshed  urged  her  barbarous  soldiery. 
And  eagerly  her  murderous  course  pursued! 
Young  Joash,  left  for  dead,  there  met  my  eyes; 
I  seem  to  see  his  terror-stricken  nurse 
Still  vainly  crouching  at  the  assassin's  feet, 
His  drooping  form  clasp'd  to  her  feeble  breast. 
I  took  him  stain'd  with  blood.    Bathing  his  face 
My  copious  tears  restored  his  vanish'd  sense. 
And,  whether  yet  with  fear  or  fond  caress, 
I  felt  the  pressure  of  his  tender  arms. 
Great  God,  forbid  my  love  should  be  his  bane. 

She  weeps  as  she  thinks  of  the  danger  he  is  yet  to  run.    Jehoiada  re- 
assures her. 

JEHOIADA 

All  that  remains  of  faithful  Israel  still 
Will  come  to-day  here  to  renew  their  vows; 
Deep  as  their  reverence  for  David's  race, 
They  hold  abhorr'd  the  child  of  Jezebel; 
Joash  will  move  them  with  his  modest  grace, 
Great  God,  if  Thy  foreknowledge  sees  him  base, 
Bent  to  forsake  the  paths  that  David  trod, 
Then  let  him  be  like  fruit  ere  ripeness  pluck'd 
Or  flower  wither'd  by  a  noisome  blast! 
But  if  this  child,  obedient  to  Thy  will, 
Is  destined  to  advance  Thy  wise  designs, 
Now  let  the  rightful  heir  the  sceptre  sway, 
Give  to  my  feeble  hands  his  pow'rful  foes, 
And  baffle  in  her  plots  a  cruel  Queen. 

He  departs,  bidding  the  choir  sing. 

Scene  4 

ALL  THE   CHORUS   SINGS 

His  glory  fills  the  universe  sublime, 
Lift  to  this  God  for  aye  the  voice  of  prayer! 
He  reign'd  supreme  before  the  birth  of  Time; 
Sing  of  His  loving  care. 

ONE  VOICE  (alone) 

Vainly  unrighteous  force 
Would  still  His  people's  praise  that  must  have  course; 

His  Name  shall  perish  ne'er. 
Day  tells  to  day  His  pow'r,  from  time  to  time; 
His  glory  fills  the  universe  sublime; 

Sing  of  His  loving  care. 


210  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

ALL  THE   CHORUS   REPEATS 

His  glory  fills  the  universe  sublime; 
Sing  of  His  loving  care. 

ONE  VOICE  (alone) 

He  paints  the  flow'rs  with  all  their  lovely  hues; 

The  fruit  to  ripeness  grows, 

For  daily  He  bestows 

The  day's  warm  sunshine,  and  the  night's  cool  dews, 
Nor  does  the  grateful  earth  t'  o'erpay  the  debt  refuse. 

ANOTHER  VOICE 

The  sun  at  His  command  spreads  joy  around, 

'Tis  from  His  bounteous  hand  its  light  proceeds; 
But  in  His  Law,  so  pure,  so  holy  found, 

We  hail  His  richest  gift  to  meet  our  needs. 

ACT  II 

Scene  2 

The  songs  are  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  Zachariah  who  brings 
serious  news. 

ZACHARIAH 

My  father,  the  High  Priest,  with  all  due  rites 
Presented  to  the  Lord,  Who  feeds  mankind, 
The  first  loaves  of  the  harvest  we  have  reap'd, 
And  then,  while  offering  with  blood-stain'd  hands 
The  smoking  inwards  of  the  victims  slain; 
And,  standing  by  his  side,  Eliakim 
Help'd  me  to  serve  him,  clad  in  linen  stole; 
While  with  the  blood  of  sacrifice  the  priests 
Sprinkled  the  altar  and  the  worshippers; 
There  rose  a  tumult,  and  the  people  turn'd, 
Sudden  astonishment  in  every  eye. 
A  woman — is  to  name  her  blasphemy? — 
A  woman — it  was  Athaliah's  self. 


Great  Heav'n! 


Within  the  court  reserved  for  men 
This  woman  enters  with  uplifted  brow, 
Yea,  and  attempts  to  pass  the  limit  set, 
Where  none  but  Levites  have  a  right  to  come. 
The  people  fly,  all  scattcr'd  in  dismay; 
My  father— ah,  what  wrath  blazed  from  his  eyes! 
Moses  to  Pharaoh  seem'd  less  terrible, — 
"Go,  Queen,"  my  father  said,  "and  leave  this  place, 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES      21 1 

Bann'd  to  thy  sex  and  thine  impiety! 

Comest  to  brave  the  majesty  of  God?  " 

And  then  the  Queen,  fiercely  confronting  him, 

Seem'd  as  in  act  to  utter  blasphemies; 

I  know  not  if  the  Angel  of  the  Lord 

Appear'd  before  her  with  a  glittering  sword, 

But  straight  her  tongue  seem'd  frozen  in  her  mouth, 

And  all  her  boldness  utterly  abash'd; 

She  could  not  move  her  eyes,  in  terror  fix'd 

And  strange  surprise  on  young  Eliakim. 

JEHOSHEBA 

What!    Did  he  stand  there  in  her  very  sight? 

ZACHARIAH 

We  both  stood  gazing  on  that  cruel  Queen, 
Stricken  with  equal  horror  at  our  hearts; 
But  soon  the  priests  encompass'd  us  around, 
And  forced  us  to  withdraw.    I  came  to  thee, 
To  tell  the  outrage  done;  I  know  no  more. 

Scenes  4  and  5 

Athaliah  stops  in  the  vestibule  of  the  Temple  and  enters  with  explana- 
tions with  Abner  and  Mattan. 


I  do  not  wish  now  to  recall  the  past, 
Nor  give  account  to  you  for  blood  I  shed. 
A  sense  of  duty  prompted  all  my  acts. 
Nor  will  I  take  for  judge  a  hasty  crowd; 
Whate'er  they  may  presume  to  spread  abroad, 
My  vindication  Heav'n  has  made  its  care. 
My  pow'r,  establish'd  on  renown'd  success, 
Has  magnified  my  name  from  sea  to  sea; 

But  for  some  days  a  gnawing  care  has  come, 
To  check  the  flood  of  my  prosperity. 
A  dream  (why  should  a  dream  disquiet  me?) 
Preys  on  my  heart,  and  keeps  it  ill  at  ease; 
I  try  to  banish  it;  it  haunts  me  still. 

Twas  deepest  night,  when  horror  falls  on  man, 
My  mother  Jezebel  before  me  stood, 
Richly  attired  as  on  the  day  she  died, 

"Tremble,"  she  said,  "child  worthy  of  myself; 
O'er  thee  too  triumphs  Judah's  cruel  god, 
And  thou  must  fall  into  his  dreadful  hands, 
Whereat  I  grieve."    With  these  alarming  words, 
Her  spectre  o'er  my  bed  appear'd  to  bend; 
I  stretch'd  my  hands  to  clasp  her;  but  I  found 
Only  a  hideous  mass  of  flesh  and  bones, 


212  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Horribly  bruised  and  mangled,  dragg'd  thro'  mire, 
Bleeding  and  torn,  whose  limbs  the  dogs  of  prey 
Were  growling  over  with  devouring  greed. 

ABNER 

Great  God! 

ATHALIAH 

While  thus  disturb'd,  before  me  rose 
The  vision  of  a  boy  in  shining  robe, 
Such  as  the  Hebrew  priests  are  wont  to  wear. 
My  drooping  spirits  at  his  sight  revived: 
But  while  my  troubled  eyes,  to  peace  restored, 
Admired  his  noble  air  and  modest  grace, 
I  felt  the  sudden  stroke  of  murderous  steel 
Plunged  deeply  by  the  traitor  in  my  breast. 
Perhaps  to  you  this  dream,  so  strangely  mix'd, 
May  seem  a  work  of  chance,  and  I  myself, 
For  long  ashamed  to  let  my  fears  prevail, 
Referr'd  it  to  a  melancholy  mood; 
But  while  its  memory  linger'd  in  my  soul, 
Twice  in  my  sleep  I  saw  that  form  again, 
Twice  the  same  child  before  my  eyes  appear'd, 
Always  about  to  stab  me  to  the  heart. 

Worn  out  at  last  by  horror's  close  pursuit, 
I  went  to  claim  Baal's  protecting  care, 
And,  kneeling  at  his  altars,  find  repose. 
How  strangely  fear  may  sway  our  mortal  minds! 
And  instinct  seem'd  to  drive  me  to  these  courts, 
To  pacify  the  god  whom  Jews  adore; 
I  thought  that  offerings  might  appease  his  wrath, 
That  this  their  god  might  grow  more  merciful. 
Baal's  High  Priest,  my  feebleness  forgive! 
I  enter'd;  and  the  sacrifice  was  stay'd, 
The  people  fled,  Jehoiada  in  wrath 
Advanced  to  meet  me.    As  he  spake,  I  saw 
With  terror  and  surprise  that  self-same  boy 
Who  haunts  me  in  my  dreams.    I  saw  him  there; 
His  mien  the  same,  the  same  his  linen  stole, 
His  gait,  his  eyes,  each  feature  of  his  face; 
It  was  himself;  beside  th'  High  Priest  he  walk'd, 
Till  quickly  they  removed  him  from  my  sight. 

That  is  the  trouble  which  detains  me  here, 
And  thereon  would  I  fain  consult  you  both. 
Mattan,  what  means  this  omen  marvellous? 

MATTAN 

Coincidence  so  strange  fills  me  with  dread. 

ATHALIAH 

But,  Abner,  hast  thou  seen  this  fatal  child? 
Who  is  he?    What  his  family,  his  tribe? 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES      213 

ABNER 

Two  children  at  the  altar  lend  their  aid, 
One  is  the  High  Priest's  son,  the  other  is 
To  me  unknown. 

1IATTAN 

Why  hesitate  to  act? 
Your  Majesty  must  needs  secure  them  both. 

Abner  makes  objections  and  Mattan  replies — 


Enough  for  fear!  I  have  considered  all. 
If  from  illustrious  parentage  he  springs, 
His  ruin  should  be  hasten'd  by  his  rank; 
If  fate  has  placed  him  in  a  lot  obscure, 
What  matters  it  if  worthless  blood  be  spilt  ? 

Scene  6 

Athaliah  orders  Abner  to  go  and  seek  the  two  children  whom  she  has 
seen.    Joash  arrives  accompanied  by  Jehosheba. 

Scene  ^ 

ATHALIAH 

Heav'ns!  the  more  closely  I  examine  him, — 
'Tis  he!    And  horror  seizes  me  again. 

(pointing  to  JOASH) 
Wife  of  Jehoiada,  is  this  thy  son? 

JEHOSHEBA 

He,  Madam? 

ATHALIAH 

He. 

JEHOSHEBA 

His  mother?    No,  not  I. 

(pointing  to  ZACHARIAH.) 
There  is  my  son. 

ATHALIAH    (to   JOASH) 

Who  is  thy  father,  child? 
Answer,  thyself. 

JEHOSHEBA 

Heav'n  till  this  very  day — 


214  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

ATHALIAH 

Why  in  such  haste  to  answer  for  the  boy? 
It  is  for  him  to  speak. 

JEHOSHEBA  (aside) 
Great  God,  put  now  Thy  wisdom  in  his  mouth! 

ATHALIAH 

What  is  thy  name? 

JOASH 
My  name's  Eliakim. 

ATHALIAH 

Thy  father? 

JOASH 

Fatherless,  they  say,  I  am, 
Cast  since  my  birth  upon  the  arms  of  God; 
I  never  knew  my  parents,  who  they  were. 

ATHALIAH 

Hast  thou  no  parents? 

JOASH 
They  abandon'd  me. 

ATHALIAH 

How?  and  how  long  ago? 

JOASH 
When  I  was  born. 

ATHALIAH 

Where  is  thy  home?    This  can  at  least  be  told. 

JOASH 
This  Temple  is  my  home;  none  else  I  know. 

ATHALIAH 

Where  wast  thou  found?    Hast  thou  been  told  of  that? 

JOASH 
'Midst  cruel  wolves,  ready  to  eat  me  up. 

ATHALIAH 

Who  placed  thee  in  this  temple? 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES      215 

JOASH 

One  unknown, 
She  gave  no  name,  nor  was  she  seen  again. 

ATHALIAH 

New  wonder  comes  to  trouble  and  perplex! 
The  sweetness  of  his  voice,  his  infant  grace 
Unconsciously  make  enmity  give  way 
To — can  it  be  compassion  that  I  feel! 

ABNER 

Madam,  is  this  thy  dreaded  enemy? 
"Tis  evident  thy  dreams  have  played  thee  false; 
Unless  thy  pity,  which  now  seems  to  vex, 
Should  be  the  fatal  blow  that  terrified. 

ATHALIAH  (to  JOASH  and  JEHOSHEBA) 

Why  are  ye  leaving? 

JEHOSHEBA 

Thou  hast  heard  his  tale: 
His  presence  longer  might  be  troublesome. 

ATHALIAH    (to   JOASH) 

Nay,  child,  come  back.    What  dost  thou  all  the  day? 

JOASH 
I  worship  God,  and  hear  His  Law  explain'd; 


What  says  that  Law? 


JOASH 
That  God  requires  our  love. 


I  understand.    But  all  within  these  walls, 
How  are  they  occupied? 

JOASH 
In  praising  God. 


What  pleasures  hast  thou? 


2l6  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 


JOASH 

Where  God's  altar  stands, 
I  sometimes  help  th'  High  Priest  to  offer  salt 
Or  incense,  hear  His  lofty  praises  sung, 
And  see  His  stately  ritual  perform'd. 


What!     Hast  thou  pastime  none  more  sweet  than  that? 
Sad  lot  for  one  so  young;  but  come  with  me, 
And  see  my  palace  and  my  splendour  there. 

JOASH 

God's  goodness  then  would  from  my  memory  fade. 

ATHALIAH 

I  serve  my  god:  and  thou  shalt  worship  thine. 
There  are  two  powerful  gods. 

JOASH 

Thou  must  fear  mine; 
He  only  is  the  Lord,  and  thine  is  naught. 

ATHALIAH 

Pleasures  untold  will  I  provide  for  thee. 

JOASH 
The  happiness  of  sinners  melts  away. 

ATHALIAH 

Of  sinners,  who  are  they? 

JEHOSHEBA 

Madam,  excuse 
A  child— 


I  like  to  see  how  ye  have  taught  him; 
And  thou  hast  pleased  me  well,  Eliakim, 
Being,  and  that  past  doubt,  no  common  child. 
See  thou,  I  am  a  queen,  and  have  no  heir; 
Forsake  this  humble  service,  doff  this  garb, 
And  I  will  let  thee  share  in  all  my  wealth;     ' 
Make  trial  of  my  promise  from  this  day; 
Beside  me  at  my  table,  everywhere, 
Thou  shalt  receive  the  treatment  of  a  son. 

JOASH 
A  son! 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES  217 

ATHALIAH 

Yes,  speak. 

JOASH 

And  such  a  Father  leave 
For— 


Well,  what? 


JOASH 
Such  a  mother  as  thyself! 


ATHALIAH    (to   JEHOSHEBA) 

His  memory  is  good;  in  all  he  says 
I  recognize  the  lessons  ye  have  given. 

JEHOSHEBA 

Can  our  misfortunes  be  conceal'd  from  them? 

All  the  world  knows  them;  are  they  not  thy  boast? 

ATHALIAH 

Yea;  with  just  wrath,  that  I  am  proud  to  own, 
My  parents  on  my  offspring  I  avenged. 
Your  god  has  vow'd  implacable  revenge; 
Snapt  is  the  link  between  thine  house  and  mine, 
David  and  all  his  offspring  I  abhor, 
Tho'  born  of  mine  own  blood  I  own  them  not. 

JEHOSHEBA 

Thy  plans  have  prospered.     Let  God  see,  and  judge! 


Your  god,  forsooth,  your  only  refuge  left, 
What  will  become  of  his  predictions  now? 
Let  him  present  you  with  that  promised  King, 
That  Son  of  David,  waited  for  so  long, — 
We  meet  again.     Farewell.     I  go  content: 
I  wished  to  see,  and  I  have  seen. 

Scene  9 

CHORUS 
ONE   OF  TOE   MAIDENS   FORMING   THE   CHORUS 

What  star  has  burst  upon  our  eyes? 
What  shall  this  wondrous  child  become  one  day? 
Vain  pomp  and  show  he  dares  despise, 
Nor  lets  those  charms,  where  danger  lies, 
Lead  his  young  feet  from  God  astray. 


218  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 


ANOTHER   VOICE 

While  all  to  Baal's  altar  flock, 

And  for  the  Queen  their  faith  disown, 

A  child  proclaims  that  Israel's  Rock 

Is  the  eternal  God  alone, 

And  though  this  Jezebel  may  mock, 

Elijah's  spirit  he  has  shown. 

ANOTHER   VOICE 

Who  will  the  secret  of  thy  birth  explain? 
Dear  child,  some  holy  prophet  lives  in  thee  again! 

ACT  III 

Scenes  i  and  2 

Mattan,  at  Athaliah's  request,  comes  to  the  temple  to  speak  to  Je- 
hosheba.    While  waiting  he  converses  with  his  friend. 


She  has  not  been  herself  these  two  days  past. 

No  more  is  she  the  bold,  clear  sighted  Queen, 

With  spirit  raised  above  her  timid  sex, 

Whose  rapid  action  overwhelm'd  her  foes, 

Who  knew  the  value  of  an  instant  lost: 

Fear  and  remorse  disturb  that  lofty  soul; 

She  wavers,  falters,  all  the  woman  now. 

Not  long  ago  I  fill'd  with  bitter  wrath 

Her  heart  already  moved  by  threats  from  Heav'n, 

"I  have  inquired,"  said  I,  "about  that  child, 

And  hear  strange  boasts  of  royal  ancestry, 

How  to  the  malcontents,  from  time  to  time, 

The  High  Priest  shows  him,  bids  the  Jews  expect 

In  him  a  second  Moses,  and  supports 

His  speech  with  lying  oracles."    These  words 

Made  her  brow  flush.    Swiftly  the  falsehood  work'd. 

"Is  it  for  me,"  she  said,  "to  pine  in  doubt? 

Let  us  be  rid  of  this  perplexity. 

Convey  my  sentence  to  Jehosheba: 

Soon  shall  the  fire  be  kindled,  and  the  sword 

Deal  slaughter,  soon  their  Temple  shall  be  razed, 

Unless,  as  hostage  for  their  loyalty, 

They  yield  this  child  to  me." 

Scene  4 

Mattan  tries  to  make  Jehosheba  admit  Joash's  identity.    He  is  inter- 
rupted by  the  sudden  entrance  of  Jehoiada  crying. 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES  219 

MATTAN 

To  rail  is  but  to  be  Jehoiada! 
Yet  might  he  well,  in  reverence  for  the  Queen, 
Show  greater  prudence,  and  forbear  to  insult 
The  chosen  envoy  of  her  high  command. 

JEHOIADA 

With  what  ill-omened  tidings  art  thou  charged? 
What  dreadful  mission  brings  such  messenger? 

MATTAN 

Jehosheba  has  heard  the  royal  will. 

JEHOIADA 

Then  get  thee  from  my  presence,  impious  wretch; 
Go,  and  fill  up  the  measure  of  thy  crimes. 

MATTAN  (in  confusion) 

Ere  the  day  close — which  of  us  is  to  be — 
'Twill  soon  be  seen — but,  Nabal,  let  us  go. 

Scene  6 

Jehosheba  wishes  to  flee  with  Joash.  Jehoiada  reassures  her,  says  that 
he  is  going  to  crown  Joash  publicly,  summons  the  Levites  and  orders  the 
Temple  closed.  He  prophesies. 

JEHOIADA 

Lo,  what  avengers  of  Thy  holy  cause, 

O  Wisdom  infinite, — these  priests  and  babes! 

But,  Thou  supporting,  who  can  make  them  fall? 

Why  throbs  my  heart  with  holy  ecstasy? 
Is  it  God's  Spirit  thus  takes  hold  of  me, 
Glows  in  my  breast,  speaks,  and  unseals  mine  eyes? 
Before  me  spread  dim  distant  ages  rise. 
Ye  Levites,  let  your  melodies  conspire 
To  fan  the  flame  of  inspiration's  fire. 

THE  CHORUS  (singing  to  the  accompaniment  of  musical  instruments) 

Lord,  by  Thy  voice  to  our  dull  ears  conveyed, 
Thy  holy  message  to  our  hearts  be  borne, 

As  to  the  tender  blade 
Comes,  in  the  spring,  the  freshness  of  the  morn! 

JEHOIADA 

Ye  heavens  hear  my  voice;  thou  earth  give  ear: 
That  the  Lord  sleeps,  no  more  let  Israel  fear: 
The  Lord  awakes!  Ye  sinners,  disappear! 


220  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

(The  music  begins  again,  and  JEHOIADA  immediately  resumes) 

Weep,  Salem;  faithless  city,  weep  in  vain! 

Thy  murderous  hands  have  God's  own  prophets  slain: 

The  Lord  the  queen  of  cities  hath  discrown'd, 

Cast  off  her  kings,  her  priests  in  fetters  bound; 

Within  her  streets  no  festal  throngs  are  found: 
The  Temple  falls!  high  leap  the  flames  with  cedar  fed! 
Jerusalem,  sad  spectacle  of  woe, 

How  in  one  day  thy  beauty  disappears! 

Would  that  mine  eyes  might  be  a  fount  of  tears, 
To  weep  thine  overthrow! 

AZARIAH 
Oh,  holy  shrine! 

JEHOSHEBA 

Oh,  David! 

THE   CHORUS 

Lord,  restore 
Favour  to  Thine  own  Zion,  as  of  yore! 

(The  music  begins  again,  and  JEHOIADA,  a  moment  afterwards,  breaks  in 

upon  it) 

JEHOIADA 

What  new  Jerusalem  is  this  draws  nigh, 
With  beams  of  light  that  from  the  desert  shine? 

Jerusalem  arise,  lift  up  thine  head! 
Thy  glory  fills  with  wonder  all  these  kings, 
Each  monarch  of  the  earth  his  homage  brings, 

Her  mightiest  kiss  the  dust  where  thou  dost  tread; 
All  press  to  hail  the  light  around  thee  shed. 
Blessed  be  he  whose  soul  with  ardour  glows 
To  see  fair  Zion  rise! 
Drop  down  your  dews,  ye  skies, 
And  let  the  earth  her  Saviour  now  disclose! 

JEHOSHEBA 

Ah,  whence  may  we  expect  a  gift  so  rare, 

If  those,  from  whom  that  Saviour  is  to  spring, — 

JEHOIADA 

Prepare,  Jehosheba,  the  royal  crown, 
Which  David  wore  upon  his  sacred  brow: 

(To  the  Levites) 

And  ye,  to  arm  yourselves,  come,  follow  me 
Where  are  kept  hidden,  far  from  eyes  profane, 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES  221 

That  dread  array  of  lances,  and  of  swords, 

Which  once  were  drench'd  with  proud  Philistia's  blood, 

And  conquering  David,  full  of  years  and  fame, 

Devoted  to  the  Lord  who  shelter'd  him. 

Can  we  employ  them  for  a  nobler  use? 

Come;  and  I  will  myself  distribute  them. 

ACT  IV 

Jehoiada  tells  Joash  that  he  is  King  and  prepares  him  for  the  part 
he  is  to  play.  He  presents  him  to  the  chiefs  of  the  Levites  from  whom 
he  demands  an  oath: 

JEHOIADA 

But  I  perceive  your  zeal  already  fired; 
Swear  then  upon  this  holy  volume,  first, 
Before  this  King  whom  Heav'n  restores  to-day, 
To  live,  to  fight,  yea,  or  to  die  for  him! 


Here  swear  we,  for  ourselves  and  brethren  all, 
To  establish  Joash  on  his  fathers'  throne, 
Nor,  having  taken  in  our  hands  the  sword, 
To  lay  it  down  till  we  have  slain  his  foes. 
If  anyone  of  us  should  break  this  vow, 
Let  him,  great  God,  and  let  his  children  feel 
Thy  vengeance,  from  Thine  heritage  shut  out, 
And  number'd  with  the  dead  disown'd  by  Thee! 

JEHOIADA 

And  thou,  my  King,  wilt  thou  not  swear  to  be 
Faithful  to  this  eternal  Law  of  God? 

JOASH 

How  could  I  ever  wish  to  disobey? 

JEHOIADA 

My  son, — once  more  to  call  thee  by  that  name,— 
Suffer  this  fondness,  and  forgive  the  tears 
Prompted  by  too  well  founded  fears  for  thee. 
Far  from  the  throne,  in  ignorance  brought  up 
Of  all  the  poisonous  charms  of  royalty, 
Thou  knowest  not  th'  intoxicating  fumes 
Of  pow'r  uncurb'd,  and  flattery's  magic  spells; 
Soon  will  she  whisper  that  no  holiest  laws, 
Tho'  governing  the  herd,  must  kings  obey; 
Thus  will  fresh  pitfalls  for  your  feet  be  dug, 
New  snares  be  spread  to  spoil  your  innocence, 


222  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Till  they  have  made  you  hate  the  truth  at  last, 
By  painting  virtue  in  repulsive  guise. 
Alas!  our  wisest  king  was  led  astray. 
Swear  on  this  book,  before  these  witnesses, 
That  God  shall  be  thy  first  and  constant  care; 
Rememb'ring  how,  in  simple  linen  clad, 
Thou  wast  thyself  a  helpless  orphan  child. 

JOASH 

I  promise  to  observe  the  Law's  commands. 
If  I  forsake  Thee,  punish  me,  my  God! 

Scene  5 

It  is  announced  that  Athaliah  has  surrounded  the  temple  with  her 
mercenaries.    Jehoiada  gives  his  last  orders  for  its  defence. 


ACT  V 

Hardly  has  Joash  been  crowned  in  the  temple  when  Abner  enters, 
demanding  in  Athaliah's  name  the  surrender  of  Joash  and  of  the  treasure 
of  David.  Jehoiada  commands  the  entrance  of  Athaliah  accompanied 
only  by  her  chief  Jewish  officers. 

Scene  3 
JEHOIADA 

Great  God!    The  hour  is  come  that  brings  Thy  prey! 
Hark,  Ishmael. 

(He  whispers  in  his  ear) 

JEHOSHEBA 

Almighty  King  of  Heav'n, 
Place  a  thick  veil  before  her  eyes  once  more, 
As  when,  making  her  crime  of  none  effect, 
Thou  in  my  bosom  didst  her  victim  hide. 

JEHOIADA 

Good  Ishmael,  go,  there  is  no  time  to  lose; 
Fulfil  precisely  this  important  task; 
And,  above  all,  take  heed,  when  she  arrives 
And  passes,  that  no  threatening  signs  be  seen. 
Children,  for  Joash  be  a  throne  prepared; 
Let  our  arm'd  Levitos  on  his  steps  attend. 
Princess,  bring  hither  too  his  trusty  nurse, 
And  dry  the  copious  fountain  of  thy  tears. 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES  223 

(To  a  LEVITE) 

Soon  as  the  Queen,  madly  presumptuous, 
Has  cross'd  the  threshold  of  the  Temple  gates, 
Let  all  retreat  be  made  impossible; 
That  very  moment  let  the  martial  trump 
Wake  sudden  terror  in  the  hostile  camp: 
Call  all  the  people  to  support  their  King, 
And  make  her  ears  ring  with  the  wondrous  tale 
Of  Joash  by  God's  providence  preserved. 
He  comes. 

Scene  4 
JEHOIADA  continues 

Ye  Levites,  and  ye  priests  of  God, 
Range  yourselves  round,  but  do  not  show  yourselves; 
Leave  it  to  me  to  keep  your  zeal  in  check, 
And  tarry  till  my  voice  bids  you  appear. 

(They  all  hide  themselves') 

My  King,  methinks  this  hope  rewards  thy  vows; 
Come,  see  thy  foes  fall  prostrate  at  thy  feet. 
She  who  in  fury  sought  thine  infant  life 
Comes  hither  in  hot  haste  to  slay  thee  now; 
But  fear  her  not:  think  that  upon  our  side 
Stands  the  destroying  angel  as  thy  guard. 
Ascend  thy  throne— The  gates  are  opening  wide; 
One  moment  let  this  curtain  cover  thee. 

(He  draws  a  curtain) 


Scene  5 

JOASH,  JEHOIADA,  JEHOSHEBA,  ABNER,  ATHALIAH,  AND  HER  ATTENDANTS 
(JOASH  is  hidden  behind  the  curtain) 

ATHALIAH    (to   JEHOIADA) 

Deceiver,  there  thou  art! 
Dost  thou  still  lean  upon  thy  god's  support, 
Or  has  that  flimsy  trust  forsaken  thee? 
He  leaves  thee  and  thy  temple  in  my  pow'r. 
Well  might  I  on  the  altar  thou  dost  serve — 
But  no,  thine  offcr'd  ransom  shall  suffice; 
Fulfil  what  thou  hast  promised.    That  young  boy, 
That  treasure  which  thou  must  to  me  resign, 
Where  are  they? 

JEHOIADA 

Straight  shall  thou  be  satisfied: 
I  am  about  to  show  them  both  at  once. 


224  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

(The  curtain  is  drawn  up.  JOASH  is  discovered  on  his  throne;  his 
nurse  is  kneeling  on  his  right;  AZARIAH,  sword  in  hand,  is  standing 
on  his  left;  and  near  him  ZACHARIAH  and  SALOME  are  kneeling 
on  the  steps  of  the  throne;  a  number  of  LEVITES,  with  swords  in 
their  hands,  are  ranged  on  either  side.) 

Appear,  dear  child,  worthy  of  royal  sires. 
Queen,  dost  thou  recognize  King  David's  heir? 
Observe  at  least  these  marks  thy  dagger  left: 
Behold  thine  offspring,  Ahaziah's  son  I 
Welcome  King  Joash,  Abner,  people  all! 

ABNER 
Heav'nsl 

ATHALIAH 

Traitor! 

JEHOIADA 

See  this  faithful  Jewess  here, 
Whose  bosom,  as  thou  knowest,  nursed  him  then. 
Saved  from  thy  fury  by  Jehosheba, 
Within  this  temple  God  has  guarded  him. 
Lo,  here  is  all  of  David's  treasure  left! 

ATHALIAH 

Traitor,  thy  fraud  will  but  destroy  the  child: 
Rid  me,  my  soldiers,  of  this  vile  pretence! 

JEHOIADA 
Soldiers  of  God,  draw  near,  defend  your  King! 

(The  back  of  the  stage  opens:  the  interior  of  the  temple  is  shown;  and 
armed  LEVITES  enter  from  all  around  upon  the  stage) 


Treason!    Oh,  where  am  I,  unhappy  Queen! 
Weapons  and  enemies  on  every  side! 

JEHOIADA 

Thy  search  is  vain,  thou  canst  not  'scape  the  toils 
Cast  round  thee  by  the  God  whom  thou  hast  scorn'd. 

ATHALIAH 

My  warriors  are  turn'd  craven,  numb  with  fear! 
Abner,  is  this  thy  coward's  snare? 


As  God  is  witness — 


ABNER 

My  Queen, 


DRAMA  THROUGH  THE  CENTURIES       225 

ATHAUAH 

Never  mind  thy  god, 
Avenge  me. 

ABNES  (throwing  himself  at  the  feet  of  JOASH) 
Upon  whom?    Joash?    My  prince? 


Hejoash!    He  thy  King!    Bethink  you,  knaves, 
That  ye  are  still  beleaguer 'd  by  my  arms; 
I  hear  my  soldiers  call  me  with  loud  shouts. 
Tremble,  ye  rebels!    Succour  is  at  hand. 

Scene  6 
ISHMAEL  (to  JEHOIADA) 

My  lord,  our  foes  have  left  the  Temple  free: 
The  foreigners  are  fled,  the  Jews  submit. 
Our  Levites,  high  above  the  courts  around, 
Have  Ahaziah's  son  to  all  proclaim'd, 
Told  of  his  infant  life  saved  from  the  sword, 
And  Athaliah's  fall  into  the  snare. 
The  trumpets  sounded  from  all  sides  at  once, 
And,  mingled  with  their  cries,  such  terror  spread 
Throughout  the  camp  as  struck  with  wild  dismay 
Proud  Midian  at  the  flash  of  Gideon's  sword. 
Some  Jews,  in  dazed  confusion,  shared  their  flight; 
The  rest  for  Joash  loudly  have  declared, 
Owning  herein  the  guiding  hand  of  God. 
Yea,  all  the  people,  with  one  heart  inspired, 
Women,  old  men,  and  babes  embrace  with  joy, 
Blessing  Jehovah  and  the  King  He  sends, 
And  hymn  the  son  of  David  raised  to  life. 
All  in  the  holy  city  execrate 
The  name  of  Baal,  and  destroy  his  shrine. 
Mattan  is  slain. 

ATHALIAH 

Jehovah,  thou  hast  won! 
Yes,  it  is  Joash.    Vain  denial  now! 
'Twas  here  I  gave  command  to  have  him  slain; 
He  has  the  mien  and  features  of  his  sire; 
I  trace  his  kinship  with  the  line  I  hate. 
Thus  David  triumphs,  Ahab  is  destroy'd. 
Relentless  god,  this  is  thy  work  alone, 
Well,  let  him  reign,  thy  care  and  handiworh! 
And,  to  inaugurate  his  sovereignty, 
Bid  him  direct  this  dagger  to  my  heart! 

She  prophesies  that  Joash  will  one  day  become  traitor  to  his  religion; 
then  she  goes  out  followed  by  the  Levites  who  slay  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    CENTURY    OF    DISCUSSION— THE 
EIGHTEENTH 

FRANCE  began  the  eighteenth  century  with  a  series  of 
disasters  which  made  the  end  of  Louis  XIV's  reign  as  wretched 
as  the  futile  grandeur  of  its  middle  years  had  been  brilliant. 
Poverty,  famine,  disease,  death  wrought  their  endless  round. 
Hitherto  the  peasantry  had  been  sacrificed  to  the  nobility; 
now  even  the  king  himself  actually  suffered  for  food  during 
the  terrible  winter  of  1708-9. 

It  was  this  poor  wreck  of  what  had  been  the  greatest  mon- 
archy of  Europe  that  Louis  XV  inherited  (in  1715)  from  his 
great-grandfather.  Once  more  France  found  herself  with  a 
child  king  as  in  the  two  previous  reigns,  but  now  there  was 
neither  a  Richelieu  nor  a  Mazarin  to  bring  an  acute  and  far- 
seeing  mind  to  bear  upon  a  situation  far  beyond  the  power  of 
the  regent  to  meet.  The  financial  situation  alone  would  have 
been  an  almost  hopeless  task  to  the  ablest  financier;  John 
Law,  a  probably  self-deceived  Scotsman,  proposed  a  paper 
money  solution  so  alluring  that  every  last  hoarded  coin  in  the 
country  went  into  the  coffers  of  the  company.  The  out- 
come was  the  same  as  with  the  South  Sea  scheme  in  England 
— further  bankruptcy  and  ruin  where  it  had  seemed  as  if 
there  could  be  no  beyond. 

In  very  despair  of  handling  conditions  so  overwhelming, 
the  regent,  Philip  of  Orleans,  brother  of  the  dead  king,  gave 
over  any  serious  attempt  to  do  more  than  tide  things  along 
until  his  responsibility  should  cease  when  Louis  reached  his 
majority  at  the  discreet  age  of  thirteen!  Meanwhile  he  and 

226 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH   227 

the  people  about  him  took  a  long  breath  in  the  freer  air  of  a 
court  relieved  at  last  of  the  dreary  ceremonial  which  the 
Sun  King  had  imposed,  and  let  themselves  go  in  the  revelries 
of  reaction.  Reactionary,  too,  was  the  feeling  toward  re- 
ligion. Louis  XIV  did  not  regard  the  wanderings  of  his  private 
life  as  inconsistent  with  a  devout  attention  to  his  religious 
duties.  He  is  said  never  but  once  in  his  life  to  have  missed 
going  to  mass,  and  the  courtiers  were  constrained  by  policy 
if  by  no  other  reason  to  follow  his  example.  Now  faith  was 
coming  to  be  regarded  as  superstition  and  religious  duties  as 
a  bore. 

St.  Simon  tells  an  amusing  anecdote  of  church-going  under 
Louis  XIV's  observation. 

Brissac,  a  few  years  before  his  withdrawal,  played  a  strange  trick  on 
the  ladies.  He  was  an  upright  man  who  could  not  endure  untruth.  He 
noticed  indignantly  all  the  seats  filled  with  ladies  in  the  winter  at  the 
communion  service  on  Thursdays  and  Sundays  when  the  king  never 
failed  to  be  present,  and  almost  no  one  there  when  they  knew  in  time 
that  he  would  not  come;  and  on  pretext  of  reading  in  their  Book  of  Hours 
they  all  had  little  candles  before  them  so  that  they  might  be  recognized 
and  noticed.  One  evening  when  the  king  was  expected  at  the  sacrament 
and  when  they  said  in  the  chapel  the  prayer  that  was  followed  every 
evening  by  the  communion  service,  when  all  the  guards  were  posted  and 
all  the  ladies  in  their  places,  the  major  arrived  toward  the  end  of  the 
prayer,  and  taking  his  stand  by  the  king's  empty  tribune,  raised  his  staff 
and  cried  loudly:  "King's  guards,  withdraw;  return  to  your  halls;  the 
king  is  not  coming."  As  soon  as  the  guards  had  obeyed,  murmurs  arose 
among  the  women,  the  little  candles  were  put  out,  and  they  all  left  ex- 
cept the  Duchess  of  Guche,  Mme.  de  Dangeau  and  one  or  two  others 
who  stayed.  Brissac  had  posted  brigadiers  at  the  exits  of  the  chapel 
to  stop  the  guards  and  send  them  back  to  their  posts  as  soon  as  the  ladies 
were  far  enough  off  not  to  suspect  anything.  Thereupon  the  king  arrived 
who  was  much  surprised  at  not  seeing  any  ladies  filling  the  tribunes 
and  asked  how  it  chanced  that  there  was  no  one  there.  When  they  came 
out  from  the  service  Brissac  told  him  what  he  had  done,  not  without  des- 
canting on  the  piety  of  the  ladies  of  the  court.  The  king  and  all  those 
with  him  laughed  heartily.  The  story  spread  at  once;  all  the  ladies 
would  have  been  glad  to  choke  him. 


228  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Literature  reflected  the  century's  change  of  tone.  While 
there  were  inheritors  of  the  classic  style  and  methods  there 
were  also  writers  in  various  forms — verse,  drama,  romance — 
who  allowed  themselves  a  liberality  of  theme,  a  naturalness 
of  expression,  and  a  diversity  of  construction  that  fore- 
shadowed the  romantic  movement  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Often  witty  and  amusing,  the  work  of  this  period,  as  a  whole, 
is  of  no  great  weight. 

JEAN  BAPTISTS  ROUSSEAU  (1670-1741)  is  an  example  of  a 
clever  formalist,  popular  in  his  day.  Here  is  an  epigram  full 
of  satirical  enjoyment. 

*  An  aged  Rohan,  puffed  up  with  his  name, 

A  sudden  stroke  of  illness  sent  to  bed; 

A  good  old  Doctor,  not  unknown  to  fame, 

Was  quickly  to  the  sick  man's  bedside  led, 

And  as  he  felt  his  pulse,  in  accents  still 

He  gravely  asked  if  he  felt  very  ill? 

No  answer  came.    The  sly  old  rascal  gave 

A  wink;  then  in  his  loudest  tones  he  said: 

"My  Lord!"    Still  nothing!    "Zounds!    The  case  is  grave! 

Prince!"     Worse  and  worse!     "Your  Highness! — He  is  dead." 

The  name  "Voltaire"  does  not  summon  thoughts  of  lyric 
verse,  yet  this  man  who  could  wield  so  powerful  a  pen  on 
themes  of  intensity  could  also  sing  of 

THE  CHARM  OF  FABLES 

(Translated  by  Marion  Pelton  Guild) 

O  happy  days,  those  days  of  fable, 

Of  sprites  familiar,  of  demons  good, 

Of  goblins  to  mortals  serviceable! 

All  these  things  so  admirable 

In  the  old  chateau  they  met  to  hear 

Where  the  great  fire-place  glowed  with  cheer: 

Father  and  mother,  maiden  pale, 

•  Translated  by  J.  Ravenel  Smith. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH  229 

All  the  family,  neighbors  too, 
Opened  their  ears  to  the  chaplain's  tale, 
Telling  what  spell  and  charm  could  do. 
Banished  now  from  their  ancient  places, 
Demon  and  fairy  alike  are  gone; 
Reason's  weight  has  stifled  the  graces, 
Dull,  insipid,  our  days  drag  on; 
Reasoning  accredits  itself,  forsooth; 
Alas,  they  all  run  after  truth! 
Ah,  believe  me,  sons  of  earth, 
Error  has  its  worth! 

ALAIN-RENE  LE  SAGE  (1668-1747),  playwright,  and  author 
of  novels  realistic  in  tone,  was  another  admirer  of  the  old 
precisions.  He  is  best  known  to  us  to-day  by  his  "  History  of 
Gil  Bias,"  a  rambling  tale  of  adventure  that  delights  by  its 
acuteness  and  good-tempered  satire  whose  universal  applica- 
tion places  it  among  the  books  that  live. 

GIL  BIAS  ENTERS  THE  SERVICE  OF  DR.  SANGRADO 

(From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature") 

I  closed  in  with  the  doctor's  proposal,  in  the  hope  of  becoming  an  Es- 
culapius  under  so  inspired  a  master.  He  carried  me  home  on  the  spur 
of  the  occasion,  to  install  me  in  my  honorable  employment;  which  honor- 
able employment  consisted  in  writing  down  the  name  and  residence  of 
the  patients  who  sent  for  him  in  his  absence.  There  had  indeed  been  a 
register  for  this  purpose,  kept  by  an  old  domestic;  but  she  had  not  the 
gift  of  spelling  accurately,  and  wrote  a  most  perplexing  hand.  This 
account  I  was  to  keep.  It  might  truly  be  called  a  bill  of  mortality;  for 
my  members  all  went  from  bad  to  worse  during  the  short  time  they  con- 
tinued in  this  system.  I  was  a  sort  of  bookkeeper  for  the  other  world, 
to  take  places  in  the  stage,  and  to  see  that  the  first  come  were  the  first 
served.  My  pen  was  always  in  my  hand,  for  Doctor  Sangrado  had  more 
practice  than  any  physician  of  his  time  in  Valladolid.  He  had  got  into 
reputation  with  the  public  by  a  certain  professional  slang,  humored  by  a 
medical  face,  and  some  extraordinary  cases  more  honored  by  implicit 
faith  than  scrupulous  investigation. 

He  was  in  no  want  of  patients,  nor  consequently  of  property.     .     .     . 

.     .     .     "Hark  you,  my  child,"  said  he  to  me  one  day:  " I  am  not  one 


230  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

of  those  hard  and  ungrateful  masters,  who  leave  their  household  to  grow 
gray  in  service  without  a  suitable  reward.  I  am  well  pleased  with  you,  I 
have  a  regard  for  you;  and  without  waiting  till  you  have  served  your 
time,  I  will  make  your  fortune.  Without  more  ado,  I  will  initiate  you 
in  the  healing  art,  of  which  I  have  for  so  many  years  been  at  the  head. 
Other  physicians  make  the  science  to  consist  of  various  unintelligible 
branches;  but  I  will  shorten  the  road  for  you,  and  dispense  with  the 
drudgery  of  studying  natural  philosophy,  pharmacy,  botany,  and  anat- 
omy. Remember,  my  friend,  that  bleeding  and  drinking  warm  water 
are  the  two  grand  principles, — the  true  secret  of  curing  all  the  distempers 
incident  to  humanity.  Yes,  this  marvelous  secret  which  I  reveal  to  you, 
and  which  Nature,  beyond  the  reach  of  my  colleagues,  has  failed  in  rescu- 
ing from  my  pen,  is  comprehended  in  these  two  articles;  namely,  bleeding 
and  drenching.  Here  you  have  the  sum  total  of  my  philosophy;  you  are 
thoroughly  bottomed  in  medicine,  and  may  raise  yourself  to  the  summit 
of  fame  on  the  shoulders  of  my  long  experience.  You  may  enter  into 
partnership  at  once,  by  keeping  the  books  in  the  morning  and  going  out 
to  visit  patients  in  the  afternoon.  While  I  dose  the  nobility  and  clergy, 
you  shall  labor  in  your  vocation  among  the  lower  orders;  and  when  you 
have  felt  your  ground  a  little,  I  will  get  you  admitted  into  our  body.  You 
are  a  philosopher,  Gil  Bias,  though  you  have  never  graduated;  the  com- 
mon herd  of  them,  though  they  have  graduated  in  due  form  and  order, 
are  likely  to  run  out  the  length  of  their  tether  without  knowing  their 
right  hand  from  their  left." 

I  thanked  the  doctor  for  having  so  speedily  enabled  me  to  serve  as  his 
deputy;  and  by  way  of  acknowledging  his  goodness,  promised  to  follow 
his  system  to  the  end  of  my  career,  with  a  magnanimous  indifference 
about  the  aphorisms  of  Hippocrates.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  The  next  day,  as  soon  as  I  had  dined,  I  resumed  my  medical 
paraphernalia  and  took  the  field  once  more.  I  visited  several  patients 
on  the  list,  and  treated  their  several  complaints  in  one  invariable  routine. 
Hitherto  things  went  on  under  the  rose;  and  no  individual,  thank  Heaven, 
had  risen  up  in  rebellion  against  my  prescriptions.  But  let  a  physician's 
cures  be  as  extraordinary  as  they  will,  some  quack  or  other  is  always  ready 
to  rip  up  his  reputation.  I  was  called  in  to  a  grocer's  son  in  a  dropsy. 
Whom  should  I  find  there  before  me  but  a  little  black-looking  physician, 
by  name  Doctor  Cuchillo,  introduced  by  a  relation  of  the  family.  I 
bowed  round  most  profoundly,  but  dipped  lowest  to  the  personage  whom 
I  took  to  have  been  invited  to  a  consultation  with  me.  He  returned  my 
compliment  with  a  distant  air;  then,  having  stared  me  in  the  face  for  a 
few  seconds, — "Signer  Doctor,"  said  he,  "I  beg  pardon  for  being  in- 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH  231 

quisitive:  I  thought  I  was  acquainted  with  all  my  brethren  in  Valla- 
dolid,  but  I  confess  your  physiognomy  is  altogether  new.  You  must 
have  been  settled  but  a  short  time  in  town."  I  avowed  myself  a  young 
practitioner,  acting  as  yet  under  the  direction  of  Doctor  Sangrado. 
"I  wish  you  joy,"  replied  he  politely:  "you  are  studying  under  a  great 
man.  You  must  doubtless  have  seen  a  vast  deal  of  sound  practice,  young 
as  you  appear  to  be."  He  spoke  this  with  so  easy  an  assurance  that  I 
was  at  a  loss  whether  he  meant  it  seriously,  or  was  laughing  at  me.  While 
I  was  conning  over  my  reply,  the  grocer,  seizing  on  the  opportunity, 
said,  "  Gentlemen,  I  am  persuaded  of  your  both  being  perfectly  competent 
in  your  art;  have  the  goodness  without  ado  to  take  the  case  in  hand,  and 
devise  some  effectual  means  for  the  restoration  of  my  son's  health." 

Thereupon  the  little  pulse-counter  set  himself  about  reviewing  the 
patient's  situation;  and  after  having  dilated  to  me  on  all  the  symptoms, 
asked  me  what  I  thought  the  fittest  method  of  treatment.  "I  am  of 
opinion,"  replied  I,  "that  he  should  be  bled  once  a  day,  and  drink  as 
much  warm  water  as  he  can  swallow."  At  these  words,  our  diminutive 
doctor  said  to  me,  with  a  malicious  simper,  "And  so  you  think  such  a 
course  will  save  the  patient?"  "Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  exclaimed  I  in  a 
confident  tone:  "it  must  produce  that  effect,  because  it  is  a  certain 
method  of  cure  for  all  distempers.  Ask  Signer  Sangrado."  "At  that 
rate,"  retorted  he,  "  Celsus  is  altogether  in  the  wrong;  for  he  contends  that 
the  readiest  way  to  cure  a  dropsical  subject  is  to  let  him  almost  die  of 
hunger  and  thirst."  "Oh,  as  for  Celsus,"  interrupted  I,  "he  is  no  oracle 
of  mine;  as  fallible  as  the  meanest  of  us:  I  often  have  occasion  to  bless 
myself  for  going  contrary  to  his  dogmas."  "I  discover  by  your  language," 
said  Cuchillo,  "the  safe  and  sure  method  of  practice  Doctor  Sangrado 
instills  into  his  pupils.  Bleeding  and  drenching  are  the  extent  of  his  re- 
sources. No  wonder  so  many  worthy  people  are  cut  off  under  his  direc- 
tion."— " No  defamation !"  interrupted  I  with  some  acrimony:  "a  mem- 
ber of  the  faculty  had  better  not  begin  throwing  stones.  Come,  come,  my 
learned  doctor,  patients  can  get  to  the  other  world  without  bleeding  and 
warm  water;  and  I  question  whether  the  most  deadly  of  us  has  ever 
signed  more  passports  than  yourself.  If  you  have  any  crow  to  pluck 
with  Signor  Sangrado,  write  against  him;  he  will  answer  you,  and  we 
shall  soon  see  who  will  have  the  best  of  the  battle."  "  By  all  the  saints 
in  the  calendar!"  swore  he  in  a  transport  of  passion,  "you  little  know 
whom  you  are  talking  to.  I  have  a  tongue  and  a  fist,  my  friend;  and  am 
not  afraid  of  Sangrado,  who  with  all  his  arrogance  and  affectation  is  but 
a  ninny."  The  size  of  the  little  death-dealer  made  me  hold  his  anger 
cheap.  I  gave  him  a  sharp  retort;  he  sent  back  as  good  as  I  brought, 


232  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

till  at  last  we  came  to  cuffs.  We  had  pulled  a  few  handfuls  of  hair  from 
each  other's  head  before  the  grocer  and  his  kinsman  could  part  us.  When 
they  had  brought  this  about,  they  fee'd  me  for  my  attendance,  and  re- 
tained my  antagonist,  whom  they  thought  the  more  skillful  of  the  two. 

Le  Sage  also  staged  comedies  of  manners  which  ridiculed 
with  somewhat  ponderous  scorn  the  bourgeois  financiers  of 
his  day. 

Lighter  in  touch,  and  with  a  delicate  play  of  psychologic 
development  is  MARIVAUX  (1688-1763)  whose  style  of  not 
unpleasant  affectation  added  to  the  language,  as  did  Marot's, 
a  descriptive  word,  "marivaudage."  His  comedies  were 
pleasing  because,  while  romantic,  their  analysis  was  new  and 
clear,  though  searching,  and  they  sent  home  their  shafts  with 
a  light  touch.  A  novelist  as  well  as  a  dramatist,  Marivaux 
presented  in  "The  Life  of  Marianne"  a  naturalistic  story  in 
which  Parisians  might  read  of  themselves  with  pleased  recog- 
nition. Marianne's  na'ive  comments  on  her  experiences  in 
church  are  here  related. 

I  had  already  told  you  that  I  went  to  church.  At  the  entrance  I  found 
a  crowd  of  people,  but  I  did  not  stop.  My  new  dress  and  my  toilette 
would  have  been  too  disarrayed  and  I  tried  by  gliding  through  very 
gently  to  reach  the  upper  part  of  the  church  where  I  perceived  many 
fashionable  people  sitting  at  their  ease. 

There  were  finely  dressed  women  there,  some  of  them  ugly  and  con- 
scious of  it,  who  tried  to  have  so  elegant  an  air  that  no  one  would  notice 
their  lack  of  looks;  others  who  did  not  suspect  it  at  all  and  who  with  the 
best  faith  in  the  world  mistook  coquetry  for  beauty. 

I  noticed  one  among  them,  very  sweet  and  lovable,  who  did  not  give 
herself  the  trouble  to  be  a  coquette;  she  was  above  such  methods  of 
pleasing,  and  she  trusted  nonchalantly  to  her  good  looks;  and  this  it 
was  that  distinguished  her  from  the  others,  of  whom  she  seemed  to  be 
saying,  "I  am  naturally  all  that  these  women  would  like  to  be." 

There  were  also  a  number  of  well-made  young  cavaliers,  gentlemen  of 
cloak  and  sword,  whose  countenances  bore  witness  that  they  were  well 
content  with  themselves.  They  leaned  upon  the  backs  of  their  chairs 
in  easy  and  gallant  poses  such  as  might  stamp  them  as  conversant  with 
the  good  manners  of  the  world.  I  noticed  them  now  leaning  forward 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH   233 

against  their  supports,  then  straightening  themselves  again;  now  smil- 
ing, then  saluting  to  right  and  left — all  less  for  politeness  or  duty  than  to 
show  their  air  of  good  breeding  and  their  importance,  and  to  exhibit 
themselves  under  different  aspects. 

I  guessed  the  thoughts  of  all  these  people  with  no  effort;  my  instinct 
saw  nothing  there  outside  its  knowledge,  or  lacking  in  clearness,  for  you 
must  not  mistakenly  estimate  my  penetration  for  more  than  it  is  worth. 

We  have  two  kinds  of  understanding,  we  women.  First  we  have  our 
own  understanding  which  we  receive  from  nature,  which  we  use  for 
reasoning  according  to  the  degree  of  its  ability,  which  develops  as  it  can, 
and  which  knows  only  what  it  perceives.  Then  we  have  still  another 
understanding  which  is  apart  from  us  and  which  is  to  be  found  in  the 
stupidest  women.  It  is  the  condition  of  mind  that  the  vanity  of  pleasing 
gives  us  and  which  is  called  coquetry.  Oh!  to  be  well  instructed  this 
phase  of  mind  need  not  wait  for  age;  it  is  full  grown  as  soon  as  it  arrives; 
its  knowledge  always  compasses  the  theory  of  what  it  sees  in  practice. 
It  is  a  child  of  pride  born  grown  up,  which  at  first  lacks  audacity  of  action 
though  not  of  thought.  It  can  be  taught  grace  and  good  manners,  but 
it  learns  only  the  form  and  never  the  essence.  That  is  my  belief.  And  it 
was  with  this  understanding  I  speak  of  that  I  read  so  well  the  methods 
of  these  women:  it  was  this  understanding,  too,  that  caused  me  to  com- 
prehend the  new;  for  with  the  extreme  desire  to  be  to  their  taste  one  has 
the  key  of  all  that  they  are  doing  to  be  to  yours;  and  never  will  there  be 
any  merit  in  all  this  save  to  be  vain  and  coquettish. 

I  could  well  have  omitted  this  little  parenthesis  proving  it  to  you,  for 
you  know  it  as  well  as  I  do;  but  I  started  too  late  to  realize  that  you  know 
it.  I  see  my  faults  only  when  I  have  committed  them;  that  is  one  way 
of  seeing  them  plainly,  but  not  to  your  profit  nor  to  mine,  is  it?  Let  us 
return  to  the  church. 

The  place  that  I  had  chosen  placed  me  in  the  midst  of  the  people  of 
whom  I  speak.  What  a  scene  of  festivity!  It  was  my  first  opportunity 
to  enjoy  the  success  aroused  by  my  little  face.  I  was  quite  stirred  by  the 
pleasures  of  anticipation;  indeed  I  nearly  lost  my  breath;  for  I  was  certain 
of  success,  and  my  vanity  pictured  in  advance  the  glances  that  every- 
body would  throw  upon  me. 

I  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  Hardly  was  I  seated  before  I  drew  the 
eyes  of  all  the  men.  I  focussed  all  their  attention:  but  that  was  but  half 
of  my  honors;  the  women  did  the  rest  for  me.  They  perceived  that  it 
was  no  longer  a  question  of  their  attractions,  that  no  one  was  looking  at 
them  any  longer,  that  I  had  left  them  not  a  single  observer,  and  that  the 
desertion  was  general. 


234  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

"Manon  Lescaut,"  an  extract  from  a  long  story,  has  lived 
until  the  present  as  a  book,  a  play,  and  an  opera,  because  of 
the  touching  charm  of  its  tale  of  tender  though  mistaken  love. 
Its  author,  the  ABBE  PROVOST  (1677-1763),  wielded  the  pen 
of  a  writer  too  ready  to  take  the  pains  necessary  to  greatness. 
He  is  always  full  of  appeal,  however,  as  this  extract  telling  of 
Manon's  death  will  show. 

We  walked  as  far  as  Manon's  courage  could  sustain  her,  that  is  to  say, 
about  two  leagues;  for  this  incomparable  girl  constantly  refused  to  stop 
sooner.  Overcome  at  last  by  lassitude  she  confessed  to  me  that  it  was 
impossible  for  her  to  go  farther.  It  was  already  night;  we  sat  down  in  a 
vast  plain  where  we  could  not  find  a  tree  to  shelter  us.  Her  first  care  was 
to  change  the  bandage  on  my  wound  which  she  herself  had  dressed  be- 
fore our  departure.  I  opposed  her  desire  in  vain;  I  should  have  wounded 
her  bitterly  if  I  had  refused  her  the  satisfaction  of  thinking  me  comfort- 
able and  out  of  danger  before  she  thought  of  caring  for  herself.  I  yielded 
to  her  wishes  for  some  time;  I  received  her  attentions  silent  and  ashamed. 

But  when  she  had  satisfied  her  tenderness  with  what  ardor  did  mine 
take  its  turn.  I  took  off  my  garments  that  she  might  find  the  ground 
less  hard  to  lie  on.  I  made  her  consent,  in  spite  of  herself,  to  see  me  do 
everything  I  could  think  of  for  her  comfort.  I  warmed  her  hands  by  my 
burning  kisses  and  the  warmth  of  my  sighs.  I  passed  the  entire  night 
in  watching  beside  her  and  in  praying  heaven  to  grant  her  sweet  and 
peaceful  sleep.  Oh  God,  how  ardent  and  sincere  were  my  prayers  and 
by  what  a  severity  of  judgment  had  you  decided  not  to  grant  them! 

Forgive  me  if  I  finish  in  a  few  words  a  tale  that  kills  me  in  the  telling. 
I  am  speaking  to  you  of  a  misfortune  that  never  had  its  like;  my  whole 
life  will  be  spent  in  lamenting  it.  But,  though  I  always  bear  it  in  my 
memory,  my  soul  seems  to  recoil  with  horror  every  time  that  I  try  to 
speak  of  it. 

We  had  passed  a  part  of  the  night  quietly.  I  thought  my  dear  lady 
asleep,  and  I  dared  not  draw  the  least  breath  for  fear  of  disturbing  her 
sleep.  Toward  daybreak  I  noticed  as  I  touched  her  hands  that  they  were 
cold  and  trembling.  I  laid  them  against  my  breast  to  warm  them.  She 
felt  the  movement  and,  making  an  effort  to  lay  hold  of  mine,  she  said  in  a 
weak  voice  that  she  thought  she  was  dying. 

At  first  I  looked  on  this  speech  as  but  the  usual  language  of  misfortune 
and  I  replied  to  it  by  the  tender  consolations  of  love.  But  her  frequent 
sighs,  her  silence  when  I  questioned  her,  the  pressure  of  her  hands  in 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH   235 

which  she  continued  to  hold  mine,  made  me  realize  that  the  end  of  her 
troubles  was  approaching. 

Do  not  ask  me  to  describe  my  feelings  nor  to  tell  you  her  last  words. 
I  lost  her;  I  received  from  her  tokens  of  affection  up  to  the  very  moment 
when  she  died.  That  is  all  of  this  dire,  and  this  deplorable  event  that 
I  have  the  strength  to  tell  you. 

ALEXIS  PIRON  (1689-1773)  wrote  a  comedy  "Metro- 
mania"  ("  Metre  Madness")  depicting  the  adventures  of  a 
poetry-crazed  youth.  The  author  managed  to  fall  into  dis- 
favor with  the  king  who  refused  to  confirm  his  election  to 
the  Academy;  whereupon  Piron  wrote  his  own  epitaph,  with 
its  flavor  of  sour  grapes. 

Here  lies  Piron,  a  failure.     No  magician 
Could  make  him  even  an  Academician. 

JEAN-BAPTISTE-LOUIS  CRESSET  (1709-1777),  analyzing  the 
pernicious  activities  of  a  malicious  man,  is  further  testimony 
to  the  century's  tendency  toward  psychology.  With  that  as 
the  basis  of  almost  all  dramatic  presentation  there  was  also 
an  undercurrent  of  comment  on  all  the  discussions  of  the  day 
— religion,  economics,  philosophy.  Indeed,  every  literary 
form  served  as  a  vehicle  for  discussion  in  this  century  which 
grew  more  and  more  fond  of  discussion  as  the  years  rolled  on. 
Few  writers  confined  themselves  to  one  form.  Even  the 
omniscient  encyclopedist,  Diderot,  wrote  plays. 

DESTOUCHES  (1680-1754)  was  another  dramatist  of  a 
psychological  turn,  who  developed  character  studies  into 
plays,  "The  Ingrate,"  "The  Slanderer,"  "The  Man  of 
Irresolution." 

The  two  CREBILLONS,  father  and  son,  were  both  writers 
admired  in  their  own  time,  though  the  son's  novels  are  too 
coarse  to  be  read  now,  and  the  father's  tragedies  are  too 
heavy  to  command  our  enjoyment.  Both  in  turn  held  the 
office  of  Royal  Censor.  It  would  seem  to  have  been  not 
without  its  personal  advantages.  This  extract  from  the 


236  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

"Electra"  of  the  older  CREBILLON  (PROSPER  JOLYOT,  1674- 
1762)  will  give  an  idea  of  its  "classical"  leaning. 

MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER 

(From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature") 

Clytemnestra.  So!  far  from  answering  a  mother's  kindness, 
Thou  heap'st  defiance  on  that  sacred  name! 
And  when  my  pity  seeks  her  happiness, 
Electra  scorns  me  still.    Ay,  ay,  defy  me, 
Proud  princess,  unrelenting!  but  accuse 
None  save  thyself,  that  Fate  so  frowns  on  theel 
From  a  great  monarch,  jealous  of  his  power, 
I  won  a  hero-husband  for  my  daughter; 
And  hasty  Hope  has  shown  to  me  the  sceptre 
Within  our  house  once  more,  bought  by  that  union; 
Yet  she,  ungrateful,  only  seeks  our  ruin! 
But  one  word  more:  thou  hold'st  the  heart  of  Itys, 
And  this  same  day  shall  see  your  lots  united. 
Refuse  him  at  thy  peril!  for  Aegisthus 
Is  weary  of  the  slave  within  his  palace, 
Whose  tears  move  men  and  gods  to  pity. 

Electra.  Pity! 

Against  so  proud  a  tyrant,  O  ye  heavens, 
What  weapon?    Can  he  fear  my  harmless  tears, 
Who  thus  defies  remorse?    Ah,  madam, — mother! 
Is  it  for  thee  to  add  to  my  misfortunes? 
I,  I  jEgisthus's  slave — alack,  how  comes  it? 
Ah,  hapless  daughter!  who  such  slave  has  made  me? 
And  say,  of  whom  was  this  Electra  born? 
And  is  it  fitting  thou  shouldst  so  reproach  me? 
Mother! — if  still  that  holy  name  can  move  thee, — 
And  if  indeed  my  shame  be  known  to  all 
Within  this  palace, — show  compassion  on  me, 
And  on  the  griefs  thy  hand  hath  heaped  upon  me; 
Speed,  speed  my  death  1  but  think  not  to  unite  me 
To  him,  the  son  of  that  foul  murderer! 
That  wretch  whose  fury  robbed  me  of  a  father, 
And  still  pursues  him  in  his  son  and  daughter. 
Usurping  even  the  disposal  of  my  hand ! 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH  237 

Canst  speak  of  such  a  marriage,  and  not  shudder? 

Mother!  that  lovedst  me  once, — how  have  I  lost  it, 

Thy  tender  love?    Alas!    I  cannot  hate  thee; 

Despite  the  sorrows  that  have  hedged  me  round, 

The  bitter  tears  I  shed  within  this  place, 

'Tis  only  for  the  tyrant  I  invoke 

The  high  gods'  wrath.    Ah,  if  I  must  forget 

That  I  have  lost  a  father — help  me,  madam, 

To  still  remember  that  I  have  a  mother! 
Clytemnestra.  What  can  I  do?  how  act?    Naught  save  thy  marriage 

Will  satisfy  the  King.    I  pray  thee,  yield. 

Repine  no  longer  at  thy  destined  lot, 

And  cease  bewailing  o'er  a  dead  barbarian 

Who — had  he  found  another  Ilion — 

Thyself  full  quickly  would  have  made  an  offering 

Upon  the  altar  of  his  own  ambition. 

Thus  did  he  dare — oh  dark  and  cruel  heart! — 

Before  mine  eyes  to  sacrifice  my  daughter! 
Electra.  Cruel, — ay,  madam;  yet  was  he  thy  husband. 

If  thus  he  purchased  for  him  punishment, 

What  gods  or  men  appointed  thee  avenger? 

If  Heaven  in  extremity  of  harshness 

Compelled  him,  hapless  hero!  to  outpour 

His  own  blood — answer!  was  it  not  for  Heaven 

He  spilled  it?    But  thou,  most  unnatural  mother 

Of  sorrow-scourged  Electra  and  Orestes, 

Thou  too  wouldst  spill  the  last  drops  of  that  blood; 

Not  for  high  Heaven,  jealous  of  its  altars, 

But  for  the  vilest  mortal.    Ah,  behold  him! 

He  comes,  inhuman  wretch!  and  at  the  sight 

Fierce  passions  stir  within  my  seething  soul. 

Greatest  of  all  the  dramatists  of  this  century  was  that 
master  of  many  forms,  FRANCOIS  MARIE  AROUET,  called 
VOLTAIRE  (1694-1778).  His  comedies  were  few  and  mediocre, 
but  he  wrote  twenty-eight  tragedies  of  which  four  are  placed 
by  critics  in  the  first  rank  of  French  dramatic  verse.  "  Zaire '' 
is  the  best  of  these,  exact  in  language,  classical  in  form,  of 
moving  plot.  It  tells  the  story  of  the  love  of  the  sultan 


238  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Orosmane  for  a  beautiful  slave,  Zaire,  of  his  jealousy  for  a 
Christian  captive,  really  Zaire's  brother,  of  his  assassination 
of  Zaire  in  a  fit  of  jealous  passion  and  of  his  own  suicide  by 
way  of  expiation.  The  struggle  which  must  be  in  every 
drama  to  give  it  cause  for  existence  is  between  Zaire's  love 
for  the  sultan,  who  is  about  to  make  her  his  bride  while  she 
is  still  a  Mussulman,  and  her  latent  leaning  toward  Christian- 
ity aroused  by  her  newly-found  father,  Lusignan,  a  descend- 
ant of  the  Kings  of  Jerusalem,  and  her  brother,  Nerestan. 
The  whole  tone  of  the  play  is  elevated  and  sincere.  Its 
climax  comes  in  the  third  act  when  Nerestan  declares  death 
to  be  the  worthy  punishment  for  a  Christian  who  would  wed 
a  Mussulman  and  Zaire  cries  "Strike  then!  I  love  him!" 
Here  is  the  scene : 

Nerestan.  Sister,  may  I  speak  to  you?  Ah?  at  what  a  time  has  Heaven 
chosen  to  reunite  us!  You  will  never  see  again  your  unhappy  father. 

Zaire.  God!    Lusignan?     .     .     . 

Nerestan.  His  last  hour  is  approaching.  His  joy  at  seeing  us,  spurring 
him  to  effort,  has  sapped  the  source  of  his  already  weakened  strength, 
and  the  emotion  which  filled  his  soul  soon  exhausted  the  springs  of  life. 
But,  as  a  crown  of  horror,  he  is  doubtful  in  his  last  moments  as  to  the 
creed  of  his  daughter;  he  is  dying  in  bitterness  and  his  restless  soul  is 
asking  with  sighs  whether  you  are  a  Christian. 

Zaire.  What!  I  am  your  sister,  and  yet  you  think  that  I  shall  renounce 
my  lineage  and  my  faith! 

Nerestan.  Ah!  sister!  that  faith  is  not  yet  yours;  the  day  which  en- 
lightens you  is  but  dawning;  you  have  not  received  that  precious  rite 
which  washes  away  our  crimes  and  opens  Heaven  for  us.  Swear  by  our 
misfortunes  and  by  your  family,  by  those  holy  martyrs  whose  descend- 
ant you  are,  that  you  will  receive  here,  to-day,  the  seal  of  the  living  God 
which  binds  us  to  Him. 

Zaire.  Yes,  I  swear  between  your  hands  by  this  God  whom  I  adore, 
by  His  law  which  I  seek,  which  my  heart  does  not  yet  know,  to  live  hence- 
forth under  His  holy  law.  .  .  .  But,  dear  brother,  .  .  .  Alas! 
what  does  it  ask  of  me?  What  does  it  require? 

Nerestan.  To  hate  the  sway  of  your  masters;  to  serve,  to  love  this 
God  whom  our  ancestors  loved,  who,  born  hard  by  these  walls,  died  here 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH  239 

for  us;  who  has  brought  us  together;  who  led  me  to  you.  How  should  I 
tell  you  of  Him?  I,  more  faithful  than  learned,  am  but  a  soldier,  and  I 
have  but  my  zeal.  A  holy  priest  will  come  hither  and  bring  you  life,  and 
unseal  your  eyes.  Think  of  your  oaths,  and  that  the  baptismal  water 
does  not  bring  you  death  and  a  curse.  Get  permission  for  me  to  return 
with  him.  But  by  what  claim,  oh,  Heaven!  must  you  obtain  it?  From 
whom  in  this  accursed  seraglio  must  you  demand  it?  You,  the  scion  of 
twenty  kings,  are  the  slave  of  Orosmane!  Kin  to  Louis,  daughter  of 
Lusignan!  You,  a  Christian,  and  my  sister,  are  the  slave  of  a  sultan! 
You  hear  me,  ...  I  dare  not  say  more:  God,  have  you  preserved 
us  for  this  last  outrage! 

Zaire.  Ah!  cruel  man!  continue.  You  know  not  my  secret,  my  tor- 
ments, my  desires,  my  struggles.  Brother,  have  pity  on  a  sister,  strayed 
from  the  fold,  who  burns  and  groans,  who,  all  despairing,  dies.  I  am 
Christian,  alas!  ...  I  await  with  ardent  longing  this  holy  water, 
this  water  which  can  heal  my  heart.  No,  I  shall  not  be  unworthy  of  my 
brother,  of  my  ancestors,  of  myself,  of  my  unhappy  father.  Speak  then 
to  Zaire  and  conceal  nothing  from  her;  tell  me  ...  what  is  the 
law  of  the  Christian  empire?  What  is  the  punishment  for  an  unfortunate 
girl  who,  far  from  her  relations,  abandoned  to  slavery,  finding  generous 
support  in  a  barbarian,  touched  his  heart,  and  united  herself  to  him? 

N (restart.  Oh  Heaven!  What  is  this  you  say?  Ah!  Swiftest  death 
should  .  .  . 

Zaire.  Enough;  strike,  and  prevent  your  shame. 

Nerestan.  Who?    You?  my  sister? 

Zaire.  It  is  I  myself  whom  I  have  just  accused.  Orosmane  adores 
me.  .  .  and  I  was  about  to  marry  him. 

Nerestan.  To  marry  him!  Is  it  true,  sister?  You,  yourself?  You  the 
daughter  of  kings? 

Zaire.  Strike,  I  say;  I  love  him. 

Nerestan.  Unhappy  shameless  issue  of  the  race  from  whom  you  sprang, 
you  ask  for  death  and  you  deserve  death:  and  if  I  were  to  give  heed  only 
to  thy  shame  and  my  self-respect,  to  the  honor  of  my  house,  of  my  father, 
and  of  his  memory,  if  the  law  of  thy  God,  whom  thou  dost  not  know,  and 
of  my  religion  did  not  withhold  my  arm,  I  should  go  into  the  palace 
this  very  instant  and  sacrifice  with  this  sword  the  barbarian  who  loves 
thec,  and  from  his  unworthy  side  I  should  plunge  the  steel  into  thine, 
and  thence  withdrawing  it,  should  plunge  it  into  mine.  Heaven!  while 
Louis,  earth's  great  example,  is  warring  .along  the  frightened  Nile, 
previous  to  coming  hither  to  deliver  by  his  strong  arm  thy  God  and  return 
to  Him  these  walls,  Zaire,  meanwhile,  my  sister,  his  relative,  is  bound  by 


240  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

marriage  to  the  tyrant  of  a  seraglio !  And  I  return  and  tell  Lusignan  the 
betrayed  that  his  daughter  has  chosen  a  Tartar  as  a  God!  Alas!  At 
this  harrowing  moment  thy  father  is  dying  as  he  asks  of  God  the  safety 
of  Zaire. 

Zaire.  Stop,  dear  brother.  .  .  .  Stop,  know  my  purpose  better. 
Perhaps  Zaire  is  still  worthy  of  you.  Brother,  spare  me  this  horrible 
language;  your  anger,  your  reproach  is  greater  outrage,  keener  and  harder 
for  me  to  bear  than  that  death  which  I  asked  of  you  and  which  you  do 
not  give  me.  The  condition  in  which  you  find  me  overwhelms  your 
courage:  you  suffer,  I  see  you  do;  I  suffer  more.  Would  that  the  harsh 
help  of  Heaven  had  arrested  the  flow  of  my  blood  in  my  heart  on  the  day 
when  this  pure  Christian  blood,  poisoned  by  a  wicked  flame,  burned  for 
Orosmane,  the  day  when  Orosmane,  charmed  by  your  sister.  .  .  . 
Forgive  me,  ye  Christians,  who  would  not  have  loved  him !  He  did  every- 
thing for  me;  his  heart  had  chosen  me;  I  saw  his  pride  soften  for  me  alone. 
It  is  he  who  has  reanimated  the  hope  of  the  Christians;  it  is  to  him  that  I 
owe  the  happiness  of  seeing  you;  forgive;  your  anger,  my  father,  my 
tenderness,  my  oaths,  my  duty,  my  remorse,  my  weakness  are  punish- 
ment enough  and  your  sister  even  now  is  overwhelmed  by  her  repentance 
far  more  than  by  her  love. 

Nerestan.  I  both  blame  and  pity  you;  believe  me,  Providence  will  not 
let  you  die  unless  you  are  innocent.  Alas!  I  forgive  you  these  hateful 
struggles;  God  has  not  yet  lent  you  his  victorious  arm;  that  arm  which 
gives  strength  to  the  weakest,  courage  will  sustain  this  weak  reed  beaten 
by  storms.  He  will  not  permit  that  your  heart,  pledged  to  His  faith, 
be  divided  between  a  barbarian  and  Himself.  Baptism  will  extinguish 
this  love  that  fills  it,  and  you  shall  live  in  the  faith  or  die  a  martyr.  Then 
complete  now  the  oath  you  began;  complete  it,  and  amidst  the  horror  with 
which  your  heart  is  pressed,  promise  to  King  Louis,  to  Europe,  to  your 
father,  to  that  God  who  already  is  speaking  to  your  sincere  heart,  not 
to  allow  this  hateful  marriage  before  the  priest  has  cleared  your  eyes, 
before  he  makes  you  a  Christian  in  my  presence,  before  God  adopts 
you  at  his  hands  and  strengthens  you.  Do  you  promise,  Zaire? 

Zaire.  Yes,  I  promise;  make  me  a  Christian  and  free,  I  submit  to  it 
all.  Go,  close  the  eyes  of  our  dying  father.  Go.  Would  that  I  might 
follow  thee  and  die  first. 

Nerestan.  I  go.  Adieu,  sister,  since  my  wishes  can  not  tear  you  away 
from  this  palace  of  disgrace,  I  shall  soon  return  and  by  a  timely  baptism 
snatch  thee  from  the  fires  of  hell,  and  once  more  return  thee  to  yourself. 

The  moral  influence  of  the  court,  grosser  under  the  man- 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH  241 

hood  rule  of  Louis  XV  than  in  the  time  of  the  regent  even, 
affected  letters  as  well  as  life.  Many  of  the  novels  and  poems 
were  both  irreligious  and  vulgar,  while  plays  were  either 
coarse  beyond  excuse  or  sentimental  to  the  point  of  tears. 
Verse  writers  were  not  many.  Cresset  is  their  chief,  his  most 
amusing  poem  being  his  story  of  the  Vert- Vert  ("Greeny") 
the  parrot,  who  attained  such  piety  of  speech  in  a  convent 
that  he  was  invited  to  visit  another  convent  that  he  might 
astonish  the  nuns.  He  did  astonish  them — but  it  was  by  his 
profanity  which  he  picked  up  from  his  fellow-travellers  on 
the  trip. 

The  following  passage  describes  Vert- Vert's  accomplish- 
ments: 

Quick  at  all  arts,  our  bird  was  rich  at 
That  best  accomplishment  called  chit  chat; 
For,  though  brought  up  within  the  cloister, 
His  beak  was  not  closed  like  an  oyster, 
But,  trippingly,  without  a  stutter, 
The  longest  sentences  would  utter. 
Pious  withal,  and  moralizing, 
His  conversation  was  surprising; 
None  of  your  equivoques,  no  slander, — 
To  such  vile  tastes  he  scorned  to  pander; 
But  his  tongue  ran  most  smooth  and  nice  on 
"Deo  sit  laus"  and  " Kyrie  Eleison"; 
The  maxims  he  gave  with  best  emphasis 
Were  Suarez's  or  Thomas  a  Kempis'. 
In  Christmas  carols  he  was  famous, 
"Orate,  fralres,"  and  "Oremus"; 

The  parrot's  journey  was  on  the  River  Loire. 

Ver-vert  took  shipping  in  this  craft, 
Tis  not  said  whether  fore  or  aft; 

and  he  met  on  board  a  motley  group. 

For  a  poor  bird  brought  up  in  purity 
'Twas  a  sad  augur  for  futurity 


242  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

To  meet,  just  free  from  his  indentures, 
And  in  the  first  of  his  adventures, 
Such  company  as  formed  his  hansel, — 
Two  rogues!    A  friar!!  and  a  damsel!!! 
Birds  the  above  were  of  a  feather; 
But  to  Ver-vert  'twas  altogether 
Such  a  strange  aggregate  of  scandals 
As  to  be  met  among  the  Vandals. 
Rude  was  their  talk,  bereft  of  polish, 
And  calculated  to  demolish 
All  the  fine  notions  and  good-breeding 
Taught  by  the  nuns  in  their  sweet  Eden. 
No  billingsgate  surpassed  the  nurse's, 
And  all  the  rest  indulged  in  curses: 
Ear  hath  not  heard  such  vulgar  gab  in 
The  nautic  cell  of  any  cabin. 

The  bird  proved  an  apt  pupil,  and  grew  so  to  like  his  com- 
panions that  he  made  tremendous  though  useless  objection 
to  being  carried  from  the  boat  to  the  convent. 

Thus  was  Ver-vert,  heart-sick  and  weary, 
Brought  to  the  heavenly  monastery. 

Round  the  bright  stranger,  so  amazing 
And  so  renowned,  the  sisters,  gazing, 
Praised  the  green  glow  which  a  warm  latitude 
Gave  to  his  neck,  and  liked  his  attitude. 
Some  by  his  gorgeous  tail  are  smitten 
Some  by  his  beak  so  beauteous  bitten! 

Meantime,  the  abbess,  to  draw  out 

A  bird  so  modest  and  devout, 

With  soothing  air  and  tone  caressing 

The  pilgrim  of  the  Loire  addressing, 

Broached  the  most  edifying  topics 

To  start  this  native  of  the  tropics; 

When,  O,  surprise!  the  pert  young  Cupid 

Breaks   forth, — "Morbleu!   those  nuns  are   stupid!" 

Showing  how  well  he  learned  his  task  on 

The  packet-boat  from  that  vile  Gascon. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH  243 

Forth,  like  a  Congreve  rocket,  burst 

He  stormed  and  swore,  flared  up  and  cursed. 

The  younger  sisters  mild  and  meek 
Thought  that  the  culprit  spoke  in  Greek; 
But  the  old  matrons  and  "the  bench" 
Knew  every  word  was  genuine  French; 

Such  a  wicked  visitor  could  not  be  allowed  to  remain,  and 

Straight  in  a  cage  the  nuns  insert 
The  guilty  person  of  Ver-vert; 

Back  to  the  convent  of  his  youth, 

Sojourn  of  innocence  and  truth, 

Sails  the  green  monster,  scorned  and  hated, 

His  heart  with  vice  contaminated. 

Must  I  tell  how  on  his  return, 

He  scandalized  his  old  sojourn, 

And  how  the  guardians  of  his  infancy 

Wept  o'er  their  quondane  child's  delinquency? 

Some  are  for  punishing  him  severely. 

But  milder  views  prevailed.    His  sentence 
Was,  that  until  he  showed  repentance, 
"A  solemn  fast  and  frugal  diet 
Silence  exact,  and  pensive  quiet, 
Should  be  his  lot;" 

The  prodigal,  reclaimed  and  free, 

Became  again  a  prodigy, 

And  gave  more  joy,  by  works  and  words, 

Than  ninety-nine  canary  birds, 

Until  his  death — which  last  disaster 

(Nothing  on  earth  endures!)  came  faster 

Than  they  imagined. 

And  from  a  short  life  and  a  merry, 
Poll  sailed  one  day  per  Charon's  ferry. 

Another  writer  who,  like  the  Abb6  Provost,  lives  to-day  in 
opera  is  BEAUMARCHAIS  (1732-1799)  who  bought  the  right 


244  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

to  use  the  noble's  de  before  his  name,  and  who  earned  a  patent 
of  artistic  nobility  by  the  abundant  use  of  his  talents.  His 
wit  and  invention  have  made  "The  Barber  of  Seville"  and 
the  "Marriage  of  Figaro"  sure  of  a  joyous  reception  even 
to-day,  though  they  have  not  the  meaning  for  us  that  they 
had  for  people  trained  to  look  at  the  old  regime  through  the 
eyes  of  Voltaire  and  Rousseau.  Through  the  gayety  of  the 
"Marriage"  flashes  the  bitterness  of  the  poor  against  the 
privileged  when  Figaro,  the  valet,  asks  why  the  Count,  his 
master,  lies  on  such  a  bed  of  roses,  and  answers  his  own 
question  with  the  sneer  "Because  you  took  the  trouble  to  be 
born!"  Here  is  a  part  of  Figaro's  account  of  his  life. 

FIGARO,  (walking  in  the  dark}.  Count,  because  you  are  a  great  lord 
you  think  yourself  a  great  genius!  ...  .  nobility,  fortune,  rank, 
position;  things  like  these  make  you  haughty.  What  have  you  done  to 
deserve  such  prosperity?  You  took  the  trouble  to  be  born  and  noth- 
ing more!  Otherwise  you're  an  ordinary  sort  of  man!  While  I,  lost  in 
the  common  herd,  I've  had  to  use  more  science  and  calculation  just  to 
live  than  has  been  expended  in  a  hundred  years  in  governing  all  the 
Spains.  .  .  .  (fie  sits  down  on  a  bench.)  There's  nothing  stranger 
than  my  fate.  Son  of  I  know  not  whom  and  stolen  by  bandits,  reared 
in  their  habits  I  become  disgusted  with  them  and  wish  to  follow  an  honest 
career.  Everywhere  I  am  repulsed.  I  learn  chemistry,  pharmacy, 
surgery — and  all  a  great  lord's  influence  can  hardly  put  a  horse  doctor's 
lancet  in  my  hand.  Weary  of  tormenting  sick  beasts  and  eager  to  enter 
upon  an  entirely  different  occupation  I  fling  myself  head-long  into  the 
theater.  Better  had  I  hung  a  stone  around  my  neck!  I  scamper  through 
a  comedy  concerning  the  customs  of  the  seraglio.  Being  Spanish  I 
think  I  can  put  Mahomet  into  it  without  any  objection.  Immediately 
an  envoy  from  I  know  not  where  complains  that  in  my  verses  I  am  offend- 
ing the  Sublime  Porte,  Persia,  a  part  of  the  peninsula  of  India,  the  whole 
of  Egypt,  the  Kingdom  of  Barca,  Tripoli,  Tunis,  Algiers  and  Morocco; 
and  there's  my  comedy  ruined  to  please  a  lot  of  Mahometan  princes  not 
one  of  whom,  to  the  hrst  of  mv  belief,  knows  how  to  read,  and  who  would 
all  bruise  our  shoulderbiades  as  they  called  us  "dogs  of  Christians." 
Unable  to  debase  the  spirit  they  take  their  revenge  in  abusing  it.  My 
cheeks  grew  hollow,  my  time  had  expired;  I  saw  coming  from  afar  the 
horrid  bailiff,  his  pen  stuck  in  his  wig.  Trembling,  I  struggled  on.  There 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH   245 

arose  some  public  interest  on  the  nature  of  wealth,  and  as  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  have  a  thing  in  order  to  theorize  about  it,  not  having  a  sou  I 
wrote  on  the  value  of  money  and  its  net  product.  I  soon  saw  from  a 
cab  the  drawbridge  of  a  stronghold  lowered  for  me,  and  when  I  entered 
I  lost  hope  and  liberty.  (He  rises.)  How  I  should  like  to  shut  up  one 
of  these  powerful  upstarts  who  are  so  jaunty  over  the  trouble  that  they 
inflict,  until  a  good  dose  of  disgrace  has  lowered  his  pride!  I  would  say 
to  him  .  .  .  that  marked  stupidities  have  importance  only  in  places 
where  their  course  is  obstructed;  that  without  the  liberty  of  blaming, 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  flattering  eulogy,  and  it  is  only  the  petty  who 
fear  obscure  writings. — (He  sils  down  again.)  Tired  of  feeding  an  un- 
known boarder  they  turn  me  out  one  day  and  as  one  must  dine  even  when 
not  in  prison,  I  trim  my  pen  and  ask  everybody  what  the  news  is.  They 
tell  me  that  during  my  economical  withdrawal  there  had  been  established 
at  Madrid  a  system  of  free  sale  of  products  which  even  extended  to  the 
press;  and  that  provided  I  never  mention  the  government,  nor  religion 
nor  politics  nor  morality  nor  people  in  high  position  nor  business  houses 
nor  the  Opera  nor  any  other  plays  nor  anybody  who  had  anything  to  do 
with  anything,  I  am  at  liberty  to  publish  freely  .  .  .  under  the  in- 
spection of  two  or  three  censors.  In  order  to  take  advantage  of  such  sweet 
liberty  I  announce  a  periodical,  and  thinking  that  I  was  not  encroaching 
on  any  other  I  call  it  "The  Useless  Journal."  Pow-wow!  A  thousand 
poor  scribbling  devils  rise  against  me  at  once;  I  am  suppressed  and 
straightway  I  am  out  of  employment. 

Despair  seized  me.  Then  some  one  suggested  me  for  a  situation  for 
which,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  I  was  suited.  It  needed  a  calculator;  a 
dancer  got  it.  There  was  nothing  left  for  me  to  do  but  steal.  I  start  a 
faro  bank,  and  presto,  good  folk!  I  sup  in  town  and  the  aristocracy 
politely  opens  their  doors  to  me,  keeping  for  themselves  three-fourths 
of  the  profit.  I  was  on  the  point  of  retrieving  myself;  I  began  at  last  to 
understand  of  how  much  more  value  "know-how"  is  than  knowledge 
itself.  But  as  every  one  about  me  was  thieving  while  at  the  same  time 
they  required  me  to  be  honest  I  had  to  succumb  once  more.  I  was  on 
the  point  of  bidding  farewell  to  this  world  and  of  putting  twenty  fathoms 
of  water  between  me  and  it,  when  a  kind  providence  recalled  me  to  my 
early  condition.  I  picked  up  my  razor  and  strop  again,  and  leaving 
the  smoke  of  the  town  for  the  folk  who  fatten  on  it,  and  shame  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  as  too  heavy  for  a  foot-passenger,  I  walk  on,  shaving 
my  way  from  town  to  town,  and  thus  I  live  without  worry. 

Of  the  contributors  of  general  literature  of  this  century 


246  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

many  were  to  be  found  among  the  minor  as  well  as  the  greater 
lights  of  the  salons  which  were  the  descendants  of  the  meet- 
ings of  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet.  Of  the  women  best  known 
among  these  groups  there  stand  out  Julie  de  1'Espinasse, 
whose  story  became  widely  known  when  Mrs.  Humphry 
Ward  based  on  it  the  plot  of  her  novel,  "Lady  Rose's  Daugh- 
ter," and  the  Marquise  du  Deffand  who  had  been  Julie's 
protector  before  they  quarrelled.  Mademoiselle  de  1'Espin- 
asse  was  a  woman  of  sympathy  and  charm;  MADAME  DU 
DEFFAND  (1697-1780)  conquered  admiration  by  the  real 
power  of  her  intelligence.  She  was  a  great  admirer  of  every- 
thing English,  she  knew  the  most  interesting  people  in  France, 
and  her  critical  powers  enabled  her  to  talk  and  write  with 
rare  descriptive  power.  Rarely  descriptive  indeed  is  her 
portrait  of  Horace  Walpole,  drawn  for  the  sitter  in  a  letter 
addressed  to  him  in  November,  1765. 

PORTRAIT  OF  HORACE  WALPOLE 

(From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature") 

No,  No!  I  do  not  want  to  draw  your  likeness;  nobody  knows  you  less 
than  I.  Sometimes  you  seem  to  me  what  I  wish  you  were,  sometimes 
what  I  fear  you  may  be,  and  perhaps  never  what  you  really  are.  I  know 
very  well  that  you  have  a  great  deal  of  wit  of  all  kinds  and  all  styles, 
and  you  must  know  it  better  than  any  one. 

But  your  character  should  be  painted,  and  of  that  I  am  not  a  good 
judge.  It  would  require  indifference,  or  impartiality  at  least.  However,  I 
can  tell  you  that  you  are  a  very  sincere  man,  that  you  have  principles, 
that  you  are  brave,  that  you  pride  yourself  upon  your  firmness;  that  when 
you  have  come  to  a  decision,  good  or  bad,  nothing  induces  you  to  change 
it,  so  that  your  firmness  sometimes  resembles  obstinacy.  Your  heart  is 
good  and  your  friendship  strong,  but  neither  tender  nor  facile.  Your 
fear  of  being  weak  makes  you  hard.  You  are  on  your  guard  against  all 
sensibility.  You  cannot  refuse  to  render  valuable  services  to  your 
friends;  you  sacrifice  your  own  interest  to  them,  but  you  refuse  them  the 
slightest  of  favors.  Kind  and  humane  to  all  about  you,  you  do  not  give 
yourself  the  slightest  trouble  to  please  your  friends  in  little  ways. 

Your  disposition  is  very  agreeable  although  not  very  even.    All  your 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH   247 

ways  are  noble,  easy,  and  natural.  Your  desire  to  please  does  not  lead 
you  into  affectation.  Your  knowledge  of  the  world  and  your  experience 
have  given  you  a  great  contempt  for  men,  and  taught  you  how  to  live 
with  them.  You  know  that  all  their  assurances  go  for  nothing.  In  ex- 
change you  give  them  politeness  and  consideration,  and  all  those  who  do 
not  care  about  being  loved  are  content  with  you. 

I  do  not  know  whether  you  have  much  feeling.  If  you  have,  you  fight 
it  as  a  weakness.  You  permit  yourself  only  that  which  seems  virtuous. 
You  are  a  philosopher;  you  have  no  vanity,  although  you  have  a  great 
deal  of  self-love.  But  your  self-love  does  not  blind  you;  it  rather  makes 
you  exaggerate  your  faults  than  conceal  them.  You  never  extol  yourself 
except  when  you  are  forced  to  do  so  by  comparing  yourself  with  other 
men.  You  possess  discernment,  very  delicate  tact,  very  correct  taste; 
your  tone  is  excellent. 

You  would  have  been  the  best  possible  companion  in  past  centuries; 
you  are  in  this,  and  you  would  be  in  those  to  come.  Englishman  as  you 
are,  your  manners  belong  to  all  countries. 

You  have  an  unpardonable  weakness  to  which  you  sacrifice  your  feel- 
ings and  submit  your  conduct — the  fear  of  ridicule.  It  makes  you  de- 
pendent upon  the  opinion  of  fools;  and  your  friends  are  not  safe  from  the 
impressions  against  them  which  fools  choose  to  give  you. 

Your  judgment  is  easily  confused.  You  are  aware  of  this  weakness, 
which  you  control  by  the  firmness  with  which  you  pursue  your  resolu- 
tions. Your  opposition  to  any  deviation  is  sometimes  pushed  too  far, 
and  exercised  in  matters  not  worth  the  trouble. 

Your  instincts  are  noble  and  generous.  You  do  good  for  the  pleasure 
of  doing  it,  without  ostentation,  without  claiming  gratitude;  in  short, 
your  spirit  is  beautiful  and  high. 

The  gatherings  of  Madame  Necker,  mother  of  Madame  de 
Stael,  attracted  chiefly  literary  men,  among  them  Diderot, 
the  encyclopedist,  and  Buffon  the  naturalist  who  sent  for  her 
when  on  his  deathbed.  Madame  Roland's  salons  were  more 
political.  Her  husband  was  a  man  in  public  life,  and  their 
house  was  the  center  of  the  Girondin  interests.  From  the 
horrors  of  1793  Roland  escaped  but  he  died  by  his  own  hand 
when  he  heard  of  his  wife's  execution.  Her  life  in  prison  was 
solaced  by  the  writing  of  her  incomparable  "Memoirs." 
"O  Liberty,  what  crimes  are  committed  in  thy  name!"  was 


248  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

her  dying  exclamation  before  she  laid  her  head  beneath  the 
knife.  Her  own  account  of  her  first  arrest  not  only  shows  her 
clear  and  direct  style,  but  gives  a  picture  of  the  turmoil  and 
injustice  of  the  Revolutionary  days. 

*  I  was  hardly  seated  when  I  heard  a  knock  at  the  door;  it  was  about 
midnight;  a  numerous  deputation  from  the  Commune  presented  them- 
selves and  asked  for  Roland. 

"  He  is  not  at  home." 

"But,"  said  the  personage  who  wore  an  officer's  collar,  "where  can  he 
be?  When  will  he  come  back?  You  ought  to  know  his  habits  and  be 
able  to  guess  when  he  will  come  back." 

"I  do  not  know,"  I  answered,  "if  your  orders  authorize  you  to  ask  me 
such  questions,  but  I  know  that  nothing  can  oblige  me  to  answer  them. 
Roland  left  his  house  while  I  was  at  the  Convention;  he  could  not  tell 
me  his  secrets,  and  I  have  nothing  more  to  say." 

The  party  retired  very  much  dissatisfied.  I  noticed  that  they  left  a 
sentinel  at  my  door,  and  a  guard  at  the  door  of  the  house.  I  presumed 
that  there  was  nothing  more  I  could  do  but  collect  all  my  strength  to 
sustain  whatever  might  happen.  I  was  overcome  with  fatigue.  I  made 
them  give  me  some  supper.  I  finished  mv  note,  and  gave  it  to  my  faith- 
ful servant,  and  went  to  bed.  I  slept  soundly  for  an  hour,  when  my  serv- 
ant entered  my  room  to  tell  me  that  some  members  of  the  Section 
begged  me  to  go  into  the  study. 

"I  understand  what  they  mean,"  I  answered.  "Go,  my  child;  I  will 
not  keep  them  waiting." 

I  jumped  out  of  bed;  I  dressed  myself;  my  servant  came  and  was 
astonished  that  I  took  the  trouble  to  put  on  anything  but  a  dressing- 
gown.  "One  must  be  decent  to  go  out,"  I  observed.  The  poor  girl 
looked  at  me  with  eyes  full  of  tears.  I  passed  into  the  apartment. 

"We  are  come,  Citoyenne,  to  put  you  under  arrest  and  to  seal  your 
things." 

"Where  is  your  authority?" 

"Here  it  is,"  said  a  man  drawing  from  his  pocket  an  order  from  the 
Revolutionary  Commander,  without  any  reason  for  arrest  to  conduct 
me  to  the  Abbaye. 

"Like  Roland,  I  can  tell  you  that  I  do  not  acknowledge  these  com- 
mittees, that  I  do  not  submit  to  these  orders,  and  that  you  will  only  take 
me  from  here  by  violence." 

•  From  "Half  Hours  with  the  Best  French  Authors." 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH   249 

"Here  is  another  order,"  a  little  man  with  a  disagreeable  face  hastened 
to  say  in  a  conceited  tone;  and  he  read  me  one  from  the  Commune  which 
ordered  the  arrest  of  Roland  and  his  wife  without  mentioning  the  cause. 

I  considered  while  he  was  reading  whether  I  should  carry  my  resistance 
as  far  as  possible,  or  if  I  should  act  with  resignation.  I  might  avail 
myself  of  the  law  which  forbids  arrests  by  night;  and  if  they  insisted  on 
the  law  that  authorizes  the  municipality  to  seize  suspected  persons, 
answer  that  the  municipality  itself  was  illegal,  having  been  suppressed 
and  re-created  by  an  arbitrary  power.  But  this  power  the  citizens  of 
Paris  had,  in  a  manner,  sanctioned;  and  the  law  is  no  longer  anything 
but  a  name  used  to  insult  the  most  thoroughly  acknowledged  rights; 
and  force  reigns  and  if  I  oblige  them  to  exert  it  these  brutes  know  no 
bounds;  resistance  is  useless  and  might  endanger  me. 

"How  do  you  mean  to  proceed,  gentlemen?" 

"We  have  sent  for  a  justice  of  the  peace  from  the  Section,  and  you  see 
a  detachment  of  his  armed  force." 

The  justice  of  the  peace  arrived;  they  put  seals  on  everything — on  the 
windows,  on  the  linen  cupboard.  One  man  wanted  to  put  them  on  the 
pianoforte;  they  remarked  to  him  that  it  was  an  instrument;  he  drew  a 
foot-rule  from  his  pocket  and  measured  its  dimensions  as  if  he  would 
fix  its  destination.  I  asked  to  be  allowed  to  take  out  some  things  com- 
posing my  daughter's  wardrobe,  and  I  made  a  little  packet  of  night  things 
for  myself.  Nevertheless  fifty  or  a  hundred  people  went  in  and  out  con- 
tinually, filled  the  two  rooms,  surrounded  everything  and  might  have 
concealed  ill-intentioned  persons  who  intended  to  take  up  or  put  down 
anything.  The  air  was  loaded  with  pestilential  exhalations;  I  was  ob- 
liged to  go  near  the  window  of  the  anteroom  to  breathe.  The  officer 
did  not  dare  to  command  this  crowd  to  retire;  he  only  ventured  a  gentle 
entreaty  now  and  then,  which  only  increased  it.  Seated  at  my  desk, 
I  wrote  to  tell  a  friend  of  my  situation  and  to  commend  my  daughter 
to  her  care.  As  I  was  folding  the  letter,  "Madame,"  cried  Monsieur 
Nicaud  (the  bearer  of  the  order  of  the  Commune),  "you  must  read  your 
letter  and  name  the  person  that  you  have  written  to." 

"I  consent  to  read  it  if  that  is  enough  for  you!" 

"It  would  be  better  to  say  to  whom  you  have  written." 

"  I  shall  not  do  so;  to  be  called  my  friend  just  now  is  not  such  an  agree- 
able thing  that  I  should  wish  to  name  those  in  whom  I  trust";  and  I 
tore  up  my  letter.  As  I  turned  my  back,  they  picked  up  the  bits  to  place 
them  under  seal.  I  could  have  laughed  at  this  stupid  persistence;  there 
was  no  address. 

At  last,  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  I  left  my  daughter  and  all  my 


250  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

servants,  after  having  exhorted  them  to  be  calm  and  patient.  I  felt 
that  their  tears  honored  me  more  than  oppression  could  terrify  me. 

"You  have  people  there  who  love  you,"  said  one  of  these  commis- 
sioners. 

"I  have  never  had  any  others  about  me,"  I  replied,  and  went  down. 
I  found  two  rows  of  armed  men,  reaching  from  the  bottom  of  the  stair- 
case to  a  carriage  which  stopped  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  and  a 
crowd  of  curious  people.  I  went  on  gravely  and  slowly,  noticing  this 
cowardly  or  deluded  mob.  The  armed  force  followed  the  carriage  in  two 
lines;  the  unhappy  people  who  are  deceived,  and  whose  throats  are  cut 
in  the  persons  of  their  lost  friends,  attracted  by  the  sight,  stopped  in  my 
way,  and  some  women  cried  out,  "To  the  guillotine!" 

"Would  you  like  the  curtains  drawn?"  said  the  commissioners,  ob- 
ligingly. 

"No;  innocence,  however  oppressed  it  may  be,  never  assumes  the  ap- 
pearance of  guilt.  I  fear  nobody's  looks,  I  do  not  wish  to  withdraw  my- 
self from  them,  whoever  they  may  be." 

"You  have  more  spirit  than  many  men;  you  are  waiting  calmly  for 
justice." 

"Justice!  If  there  were  such  a  thing  as  justice  I  should  not  be  in  your 
power  at  this  very  time.  Should  an  iniquitous  proceeding  lead  me  to 
the  scaffold  I  should  mount  it  as  firmly  and  quietly  as  I  am  now  going  to 
prison.  I  groan  for  my  country.  I  regret  the  mistakes  which  made 
me  think  her  fit  for  liberty  and  happiness;  but  I  value  life;  I  fear  nothing 
but  crime;  I  despise  injustice  and  death." 

These  poor  commissioners  did  not  understand  much  of  this  language, 
and  probably  thought  it  very  aristocratic. 

We  arrived  at  the  Abbaye,  that  theater  of  the  bloody  scenes  the  rep- 
etition of  which  the  Jacobins  have  advocated  for  some  time  with  so 
much  fervor.  Five  or  six  camp-beds  occupied  by  as  many  men  in  a  dark 
room,  were  the  first  objects  that  attracted  my  notice.  After  we  had 
passed  the  grating  they  got  up  and  began  to  move,  and  my  guides  made 
me  mount  a  narrow  and  dirty  staircase.  We  reached  the  keeper's  room, 
a  kind  of  little  drawing  room,  pretty  clean,  where  he  offered  me  a  couch. 

"Where  is  my  room?"  I  asked  his  wife,  a  fat  person  with  a  kind 
face. 

"Madam,  I  did  not  expect  you;  I  have  nothing  ready,  but  you  can  stay 
here  while  you  are  waiting." 

The  commissioners  entered  the  next  room,  had  their  orders  entered, 
and  gave  their  oral  instructions.  I  learned  afterwards  that  they  were  very 
strict,  and  that  they  had  them  renewed  several  times  later,  but  did  not 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH   251 

dare  to  put  them  on  paper.  The  keeper  knew  his  trade  too  well  to  fulfil 
to  the  very  letter  what  was  not  obligatory;  he  is  an  honest,  active, 
obliging  man,  who  mingles  with  the  exercise  of  his  functions  all  that  jus- 
tice and  moderation  could  desire. 

"What  would  you  like  for  your  breakfast?" 

"Some  tea." 

The  commissioners  withdrew,  telling  me  that  if  Roland  were  not  guilty 
he  would  not  have  absented  himself. 

"It  is  exceedingly  strange  that  they  can  suspect  such  a  man;  one  who 
has  rendered  such  great  services  to  liberty.  It  is  extremely  odious  to  see 
a  minister  calumniated  and  persecuted  with  such  rancour,  whose  conduct 
is  so  open,  whose  accounts  are  so  clear,  that  he  ought  not  to  have  been 
obliged  to  save  himself  from  the  extreme  excesses  of  envy.  Just  as 
Aristides,  severe  as  Cato:  these  are  the  virtues  that  have  made  him  ene- 
mies. Their  rage  knows  no  bounds;  let  it  practise  all  its  cruelty  on  me; 
I  brave  it  and  I  sacrifice  myself;  he,  he  ought  to  preserve  himself  for  his 
country,  to  which  he  can  still  render  great  services." 

An  embarrassed  bow  was  the  answer  of  these  gentlemen.  They  went 
away.  I  breakfasted  while  the  bedroom  that  I  was  to  have  was  hastily 
prepared. 

"You  will  be  able,  madam,  to  remain  here  all  day;  and  if  I  cannot  get 
a  place  ready  for  you  this  evening — for  there  are  a  great  many  people 
here — a  bed  will  be  put  up  in  the  drawing  room." 

The  wife  of  the  keeper,  who  spoke  to  me  thus,  added  some  kind  re- 
marks on  the  regret  she  always  felt  when  she  saw  people  of  her  own  sex 
come  in;  "  for,"  she  added,  "  they  do  not  all  look  as  calm  as  Madam  does." 

I  thanked  her,  smiling;  she  shut  me  in.  "Here  I  am,  then,  in  prison," 
I  said  to  myself. 

The  agitation  in  which  I  had  passed  the  preceding  evening  made  me 
feel  extremely  tired;  I  longed  to  have  a  room.  That  very  night  I  ob- 
tained one,  and  took  possession  of  it  at  ten  o'clock.  When  I  found  my- 
self between  four  tolerably  dirty  walls,  in  the  middle  of  which  was  a  com- 
mon bedstead  without  curtains,  when  I  saw  a  double-grated  window, 
and  when  I  was  struck  with  that  smell  that  a  person  accustomed  to  a 
very  clean  room  always  finds  in  those  that  are  not,  I  was  very  sensible 
that  it  was  a  prison  I  was  going  to  inhabit  and  that  it  was  not  a  place 
where  I  might  expect  anything  pleasant.  However,  the  space  was  pretty 
large,  and  there  was  a  chimney;  the  counterpane  was  tolerable;  they  gave 
me  a  pillow;  and  by  considering  these  things  without  making  any  com- 
parisons I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  was  not  badly  off.  I  went  to 
bed,  quite  resolved  to  remain  there  as  long  as  I  was  comfortable. 


252  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

A  group  of  scientists  added  to  the  sum  of  eighteenth  cen- 
tury literature  as  well  as  to  the  field  of  endeavor  to  which 
they  were  more  directly  attached.  The  most  prominent  was 
the  COMTE  DE  BUFFON  (1707-1788)  who  is  classed  with 
Montesquieu,  Rousseau  and  Voltaire  in  the  quartette  of  the 
century's  greatest  writers,  and  he  modestly  classed  himself 
with  Newton,  Bacon,  Leibnitz  and  Montesquieu  as  one  of 
the  world's  greatest  men.  He  travelled  in  Italy,  lived  in 
England,  studied  Newton,  was  given  charge  of  the  Royal 
Gardens  in  Paris,  and  wrote  many  volumes  on  the  life  and 
habits  of  quadrupeds  and  birds,  on  minerals,  on  the  origins 
of  the  earth  and  of  man.  His  style  is  simple  and  dignified, 
his  descriptions  close,  his  theories  advanced  and  so  far  from 
unreasonable  that  many  of  them  have  been  accepted  as  true. 
Both  as  a  scientist  and  a  literary  man  he  was  regarded  almost 
with  reverence.  Here  is  his  description  of 

THE  HUMMING-BIRD 

(From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature") 

Of  all  animated  beings  this  is  the  most  elegant  in  form  and  the  most 
brilliant  in  colors.  The  stones  and  metals  polished  by  our  arts  are  not 
comparable  to  this  jewel  of  Nature.  She  has  placed  it  least  in  size  of  the 
order  of  birds,  maxime  miranda  in  minimis.  Her  masterpiece  is  the  little 
humming-bird,  and  upon  it  she  has  heaped  all  the  gifts  which  the  other 
birds  may  only  share.  Lightness,  rapidity,  nimbleness,  grace,  and  rich 
apparel  all  belong  to  this  little  favorite.  The  emerald,  the  ruby,  and  the 
topaz  gleam  upon  its  dress.  It  never  soils  them  with  the  dust  of  earth, 
and  in  its  aerial  life  scarcely  touches  the  turf  an  instant.  Always  in  the 
air,  flying  from  flower  to  flower,  it  has  their  freshness  as  well  as  their 
brightness.  It  lives  upon  their  nectar,  and  dwells  only  in  the  climates 
where  they  perennially  bloom. 

All  kinds  of  humming-birds  are  found  in  the  hottest  countries  of  the 
New  World.  They  are  quite  numerous  and  seem  to  be  confined  between 
the  two  tropics,  for  those  which  penetrate  the  temperate  zones  in  summer 
only  stay  there  a  short  time.  They  seem  to  follow  the  sun  in  its  advance 
and  retreat;  and  to  fly  on  the  wing  of  zephyrs  after  an  eternal  spring. 

The  smaller  species  of  the  humming-birds  are  less  in  size  than  the 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH   253 

great  fly  wasp,  and  more  slender  than  the  drone.  Their  beak  is  a  fine 
needle  and  their  tongue  a  slender  thread.  Their  little  black  eyes  are  like 
two  shining  points,  and  the  feathers  of  their  wings  so  delicate  that  they 
seem  transparent.  Their  short  feet,  which  they  use  very  little,  are  so 
tiny  one  can  scarcely  see  them.  They  alight  only  at  night,  resting  in  the 
air  during  the  day.  They  have  a  swift  continual  humming  flight.  The 
movement  of  their  wings  is  so  rapid  that  when  pausing  in  the  air,  the 
bird  seems  quite  motionless.  One  sees  him  stop  before  a  blossom,  then 
dart  like  a  flash  to  another,  visiting  all,  plunging  his  tongue  into  their 
hearts,  flattening  them  with  his  wings,  never  settling  anywhere,  but 
neglecting  none.  He  hastens  his  inconstancies  only  to  pursue  his  loves 
more  eagerly  and  to  multiply  his  innocent  joys.  For  this  light  lover  of 
flowers  lives  at  their  expense  without  ever  blighting  them.  He  only 
pumps  their  honey,  and  to  this  alone  his  tongue  seems  destined. 

The  vivacity  of  these  small  birds  is  only  equaled  by  their  courage,  or 
rather  their  audacity.  Sometimes  they  may  be  seen  chasing  furiously 
birds  twenty  times  their  size,  fastening  upon  their  bodies,  letting  them- 
selves be  carried  along  in  their  flight,  while  they  peck  them  fiercely  until 
their  tiny  rage  is  satisfied.  Sometimes  they  fight  each  other  vigorously. 
Impatience  seems  their  very  essence.  If  they  approach  a  blossom  and 
find  it  faded,  they  mark  their  spite  by  hasty  rending  of  the  petals.  Their 
only  voice  is  a  weak  cry,  "screp,  screp,"  frequent  and  repeated,  which 
they  utter  in  the  woods  from  dawn,  until  at  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  they 
all  take  flight  and  scatter  over  the  country. 

Linnaeus  the  botanist,  Galvani  the  physicist  and  our  own 
Franklin  who  both  made  a  study  of  electricity,  were  among 
the  writers  on  scientific  subjects,  but  their  work  is  more 
technical  than  literary. 

The  most  important  writers  of  this  century  are  those  whose 
discussions  of  political  and  governmental  science,  of  eco- 
nomics, of  philosophy,  and  of  religion  crystallized  popular 
thought  into  understanding  and  understanding  into  action — 
the  fearful  action  of  the  Revolution. 

To  understand  their  fervor  it  is  well  to  return  once  again 
to  the  beginning  of  the  century  when  the  House  of  Hanover 
came  to  the  throne  of  a  united  England  and  Scotland  and 
the  five  year  old  Louis  XV  ascended  the  throne  of  France. 


254  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

England  was  astir  with  Stuart  sympathizers  and  she  was 
heavily  taxed  to  pay  for  her  share  in  the  continental  wars, 
yet  her  condition,  though  disturbed,  was  by  no  means 
wretched.  France,  on  the  other  hand,  was  crippled  in  every 
limb,  and  she  found  no  skilful  surgeon  in  the  regent.  Louis 
was  declared  of  age  when  he  became  thirteen  in  1723,  and  he 
promptly  added  to  the  country's  suffering  by  ordering  the 
persecution  of  the  Huguenots,  always  a  thrifty  element 
worthy  of  conciliation.  Once  more  the  tax-gatherers  were 
instructed  to  levy  for  the  support  of  the  armies  which  Louis 
put  into  the  field  in  the  wars  of  the  Polish  Succession  and  the 
Austrian  Succession.  Toward  the  middle  of  the  century  a 
few  years  of  peace  gave  a  chance  for  a  growth  of  trade,  but  all 
too  soon  France  found  herself  embroiled  again,  this  time 
with  England  and  Austria  on  the  continent,  and  with  Eng- 
land in  India  and  in  America.  France  lost  in  every  instance. 
Louis  XV  had  been  reared  in  his  great-grandfather's  belief 
in  the  divine  right  of  kings.  He  did  not  share  his  great- 
grandfather's pride  in  promoting  the  glory  of  France.  His 
only  idea  was  to  keep  the  old  ship  from  sinking  during  his 
day.  "After  us,  the  deluge,"  he  said,  for  the  approach  of  the 
deluge  was  evident  even  to  his  careless  eyes.  The  logical 
outcome  of  his  sincere  acceptance  of  his  divine  mission  was 
that  he  felt  himself  outraged  by  any  smallest  hint  of  opposi- 
tion. He  abolished  the  Parliaments  (courts)  in  Paris  and  the 
provinces  and  punished  their  members,  practically  the  only 
people  in  France  who  were  making  even  a  feeble  attempt  to 
secure  justice  or  to  better  conditions.  The  king  looked  on  his 
subjects  as  so  many  chattels  to  be  turned  into  money  for  his 
use  in  some  way  even  if  that  way  was  selling  them  into  prison 
at  the  expense  of  a  creditor  or  enemy.  His  crowning  infamy 
was  the  replenishment  of  his  purse  by  the  cornering  of  the 
country's  grain  supply,  with  its  resulting  famine  and  forced 
purchase  of  food  at  high  prices. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH   255 

It  was  said  in  a  previous  chapter  that  the  seventeenth 
century  developed  the  literary  qualities  peculiar  to  France 
and  the  eighteenth  century  her  soul — the  spirit  of  liberty,  and 
of  brotherhood.  This  development  resulted  from  one  of  the 
most  cruel  periods  of  growth  that  ever  land  endured.  There 
comes  a  time  when  the  beaten  dog's  very  misery  teaches  him 
to  use  his  teeth  for  protection  and  retaliation.  In  Louis  XIV's 
time  the  "Glory  of  France"  had  been  a  slogan  that  deceived 
even  the  sufferers;  Louis  XV  betrayed  his  trust  so  grossly 
that  no  patriotic  cry  could  carry  deception.  Fenelon's 
political  suggestions  were  developed  and  expanded  by 
MONTESQUIEU  (1689-1755)  whose  "Spirit  of  Laws"  made  a 
logical  appeal  for  a  constitutional  government  as  against 
absolutism,  illustrating  his  argument  by  the  case  of  England. 
His  usually  dignified  style  offered  discussion  of  the  inter- 
relations of  social  life  and  the  influence  upon  it  of  environ- 
ment and  custom  that  never  had  been  made  before  and  never 
has  been  equalled  since  in  completeness  of  material  or  ability 
of  presentation. 

The  idea  of  Montesquieu's  colossal  "Spirit  of  Laws"  came 
to  him  while  he  was  writing  the  "Persian  Letters"  hi  which 
three  travellers  from  the  East  comment  with  entire  and 
caustic  freedom  on  the  manners,  morals  and  politics  of 
France.  That  the  subjects  were  boldly  chosen  is  shown  by 
this  description  of  Louis  XIV. 

The  King  of  France  is  old.  We  have  no  instance  in  our  history  of  a 
monarch  who  reigned  so  long.  They  say  that  he  possesses  to  a  high  de- 
gree the  ability  to  make  himself  obeyed;  with  the  same  skill  he  governs 
his  family,  his  court,  his  state.  He  has  often  been  heard  to  say  that  of  all 
the  governments  of  the  world  that  of  the  Turks  or  of  our  august  sultan 
pleased  him  best,  so  high  is  his  opinion  of  oriental  politics.  I  have  studied 
his  character  and  I  have  found  contradictions  impossible  for  me  to  recon- 
cile; for  instance,  he  has  a  minister  but  eighteen  years  old  and  a  favorite 
of  eighty.  He  likes  to  gratify  those  who  serve  him,  but  he  pays  as  liber- 
ally for  the  attentions,  or,  rather,  the  idleness  of  his  courtiers  as  for  the 


256  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

toilsome  campaigns  of  his  captains;  often  he  prefers  a  man  who  attends 
upon  his  toilet  or  who  hands  him  his  napkin  when  he  sits  at  table  to  some 
other  who  captures  cities  or  gains  battles  for  him. 

His  contemplation  of  France  and  her  conditions  led  Mon- 
tesquieu to  a  consideration  of  their  causes,  and  he  extended 
his  survey  to  include  the  laws  of  government,  of  liberty, 
of  natural  physical  advantages  and  disadvantages,  of  in- 
dividual liberty,  of  economic  relations,  and  of  religion.  His 
views,  tempered  by  the  observations  of  intelligent  travel, 
are  sane  and  lenient.  He  was  as  popular  as  Voltaire,  and 
more  respected.  His  style  is  not  always  free  from  the  vul- 
garity which  most  writers  of  the  period  employed  either  to 
attract  attention  or  because,  in  accordance  with  the  trend  of 
the  time,  they  confused  liberty  with  license  in  matters  of 
expression  as  they  did  in  religion  and  in  morals.  An  example 
of  Montesquieu's  simplicity  and  clearness  when  free  from 
this  fault  is  to  be  found  in  his  discussion  of 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  TRADE 

(From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature") 

Commerce  is  a  cure  for  the  most  destructive  prejudices:  for  it  is  almost 
a  general  rule,  that  wherever  we  find  agreeable  manners,  there  commerce 
flourishes;  and  that  wherever  there  is  commerce,  there  we  meet  with 
agreeable  manners. 

Let  us  not  be  astonished,  then,  if  our  manners  are  now  less  savage  than 
formerly.  Commerce  has  everywhere  diffused  a  knowledge  of  the  man- 
ners of  all  nations;  these  are  compared  one  with  another;  and  from  this 
comparison  arise  the  greatest  advantages. 

Commercial  laws,  it  may  be  said,  improve  manners  for  the  same  reason 
as  they  destroy  them.  They  corrupt  the  purest  morals;  this  was  the  sub- 
ject of  Plato's  complaints;  and  we  every  day  sec  that  they  polish  and 
refine  the  most  barbarous. 

Peace  is  the  natural  effect  of  trade.  Two  nations  who  traffic  with  each 
other  become  reciprocally  dependent;  for  if  one  has  an  interest  in  buy- 
ing, the  other  has  an  interest  in  selling;  and  thus  their  union  is  founded 
on  their  mutual  necessities. 

But  if  the  spirit  of  commerce  unites  nations,  it  does  not  in  the  same 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH   257 

manner  unite  individuals.  We  see  that  in  countries  where  the  people 
are  moved  only  by  the  spirit  of  commerce,  they  make  a  traffic  of  all  the 
humane,  all  the  moral  virtues:  the  most  trifling  things — those  which 
humanity  itself  demands — are  there  done  or  there  given  only  for  money. 

The  spirit  of  trade  produces  in  the  mind  of  man  a  certain  sense  of  ex- 
act justice;  opposite  on  the  one  hand  to  robbery,  and  on  the  other  to 
those  moral  virtues  which  forbid  our  always  adhering  rigidly  to  the  rules 
of  private  interest,  and  suffer  us  to  neglect  this  for  the  advantage  of 
others. 

The  total  privation  of  trade,  on  the  contrary',  produces  robbery;  which 
Aristotle  ranks  in  the  number  of  means  of  acquiring,  yet  it  is  not  at  all 
inconsistent  with  certain  moral  virtues.  Hospitality,  for  instance,  is 
most  rare  in  trading  countries,  while  it  is  found  in  the  most  admirable 
perfection  among  nations  of  vagabonds. 

VOLTAIRE  (1694-1778)  also  quoted  England  as  the  country 
at  that  time  most  advanced  in  democracy.  It  must  indeed 
have  seemed  a  land  of  liberty  to  people  deprived  of  every  one 
of  the  rights  which  Voltaire  mentions  among  a  nation's 

*  DESIDERATA 

This  is  the  point  reached  by  English  legislation:  it  gives  every  man  his 
natural  rights  of  which  he  is  despoiled  in  almost  all  monarchies.  These 
rights  are: — entire  liberty  of  person  and  property;  of  speech  to  the  nation 
by  means  of  his  pen;  of  being  judged  in  criminal  cases  only  by  a  jury  of 
independent  men;  of  being  judged  in  any  case  only  according  to  the  exact 
terms  of  the  law;  of  professing  without  molestation  whatever  religion 
he  wishes,  as  long  as  he  gives  up  occupations  in  which  only  members 
of  the  Established  Church  are  employed.  These  are  called  prerogatives. 
And  indeed  it  is  a  very  great  and  very  happy  prerogative,  above  those 
of  many  nations,  to  be  sure  when  you  go  to  bed  that  you  will  wake  the 
next  day  with  the  same  fortune  that  you  possessed  the  evening  before, 
that  you  will  not  be  torn  from  the  arms  of  your  wife  and  children  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  to  be  sent  to  a  dungeon  or  a  desert;  that  when  you 
rouse  from  sleep  you  shall  have  the  power  to  publish  everything  you 
think;  that  if  you  are  accused,  whether  for  having  behaved  or  spoken 
or  written  ill  you  shall  be  judged  only  in  accordance  with  law.  ...  I 
venture  to  say  that  if  the  human  race  should  be  assembled  for  the  making 
of  laws  it  is  thus  that  it  would  make  them  for  its  own  surety. 

•From  "  Philosophical  Dictionary  "  (1771)  article  oo  "  Government." 


258  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

It  is  clear  that  men  were  growing  bold  or  they  would  not 
have  dared  so  to  praise  a  country  which  had  been  France's 
enemy  with  but  short  intervals  of  peace  for  four  centuries. 
The  nobleman  who  ventured  such  ideas  in  the  Grand  Mon- 
arch's day  would  have  had  short  shrift;  now  a  plebeian  made 
such  assertions  and  worse.  Almost  a  decade  before  Voltaire 
set  down  his  Desiderata  he  had  pronounced  in  favor  of  a 
republic.  In  1762  he  wrote: 

*  There  has  never  been  a  perfect  government  because  men  have  pas- 
sions; and  if  they  had  no  passions  there  would  be  no  need  of  governments. 
The  most  tolerable  of  all  governments  is  undoubtedly  the  republican 
because  that  is  the  one  which  brings  men  closest  in  natural  equality. 
Every  father  of  a  family  should  be  master  in  his  own  house  and  not  in 
his  neighbor's.  Since  a  community  is  made  up  of  several  houses  and  of 
the  several  pieces  of  land  attached  to  them,  it  is  a  contradiction  for  one 
man  to  be  the  master  of  these  houses  and  lands;  and  it  is  natural  that 
every  master  should  have  his  say  for  the  good  of  the  community. 

Should  those  in  the  community  who  have  neither  land  nor  house  have 
a  vote?  They  have  no  more  right  than  a  clerk  in  the  pay  of  merchants 
would  have  to  regulate  their  business;  but  they  may  be  associated  either 
by  rendering  service  or  by  paying  for  their  association. 

Voltaire  was  strongly  impressed  by  the  philosophic  and 
economic  thought  which  he  found  in  England,  and  his  out- 
put in  its  wide  variety  of  literary  criticism,  religion,  philo- 
sophic and  political  speculation,  drama,  letters,  satires,  de- 
veloped one  and  another  phase  in  which  he  happened  to  be 
interested  at  the  moment.  His  style  was  striking,  his  irony 
both  keen  and  amusing,  two  appeals  which  made  everything 
he  wrote  read  both  by  admirers  and  foes.  That  he  worked 
drifts  of  the  solid  body  of  ore  which  Montesquieu  presented 
in  its  rich  entirety  was  the  natural  expression  of  a  tempera- 
ment brilliant  and  restless  rather  than  soberly  capable  of 
sustained  effort.  Undoubtedly  he  has  been  far  more  widely 
read  than  has  Montesquieu. 

•  From  article  on  "  Republican  Ideas." 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH   259 

Last  of  the  four  superlative  writers  of  the  century,  and  the 
most  powerful  because  he  appealed  to  the  heart  as  well  as  the 
head,  was  JEAN  JACQUES  ROUSSEAU  (1712-1778).  He  was  a 
Genevese  of  uneven  character  and  irregular  life,  whose  im- 
agination produced  works  whose  value  he  himself  probably 
did  not  realize  and  whose  influence  not  only  was  one  of  the 
potent  causes  of  the  Revolution,  but,  oddly  enough  in  the 
light  of  his  own  life,  aroused  a  love  of  clean  living  and  think- 
ing and  speech  which  went  far  to  banish  the  prevalent  vul- 
garity. It  laid  its  hand,  too,  upon  the  literature  of  the  next 
century  with  a  decided  impulse  toward  Romanticism. 

Rousseau  first  attracted  attention  by  several  articles  as- 
serting that  pursuit  of  the  arts  and  sciences  had  had  an  evil 
effect  upon  human  development  because  by  the  side  of  their 
high  coloring  the  pursuit  of  morality  was  but  a  drab  affair. 
The  "Social  Contract"  whose  principles  were  quoted  and 
misquoted  as  bases  of  the  Revolution,  declared  that  there 
was  just  cause  of  revolution  when  either  party  to  the  implied 
contract — whereby  the  strong  cherished  the  weak  and  the 
weak  were  subservient  to  the  strong — broke  the  contract. 

I  suppose  men  to  have  reached  that  point  where  the  obstacles  that 
harm  their  preservation  in  their  natural  state  by  their  resistance  pre- 
vail over  the  forces  which  each  individual  can  employ  to  maintain  him- 
self in  this  state.  Then  this  primitive  state  can  no  longer  endure  and 
the  human  species  would  perish  if  it  did  not  change  its  mode  of  life. 

Now,  since  men  cannot  bring  new  forces  into  being,  but  can  only  bring 
together  and  direct  those  which  exist,  they  have  no  longer  any  means 
of  preserving  themselves  other  than  by  forming  by  means  of  aggregation 
a  sum  of  forces  which  can  prevail  over  the  resistance,  by  putting  them 
into  action  by  a  single  motion,  and  by  making  them  act  in  concert. 

This  sum  of  forces  can  be  brought  into  being  only  by  the  cooperation 
of  many;  but  since  the  strength  and  liberty  of  each  man  are  the  first 
instruments  of  his  preservation,  how  shall  he  pledge  them  without  in- 
juring himself,  without  neglecting  the  duties  which  he  owes  himself? 
This  difficulty,  leading  again  to  my  subject  can  be  expressed  in  these 
terms. 


260  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

"To  find  a  form  of  association  which  defends  and  protects  with  the 
entire  force  of  the  community  the  person  and  property  of  each  member, 
and  by  which  each  one,  uniting  himself  to  all,  nevertheless  obeys  only 
himself,  and  remains  as  free  as  before."  Such  is  the  fundamental  prob- 
lem to  which  the  social  contract  gives  the  solution. 

The  clauses  of  this  contract  are  so  determined  by  the  nature  of  the 
instrument,  that  the  least  modification  would  render  them  void  and 
of  no  effect;  in  such  a  manner  that,  although  they  have  never  perhaps 
been  formally  expressed,  they  are,  nevertheless,  everywhere  the  same, 
everywhere  tacitly  admitted  and  recognized,  so  that,  the  social  contract 
being  violated,  each  one  returns  then  to  his  original  rights,  and  resumes 
his  natural  liberty,  while  losing  the  conventional  liberty  for  which  it 
was  renounced. 

These  clauses,  clearly,  all  reduce  themselves  to  a  single  one:  to  wit, 
the  total  relinquishment  of  all  his  rights  of  each  member  to  the  whole 
community;  for,  first  of  all,  every  one  giving  himself  completely,  the 
condition  is  equal  for  all;  and  the  condition  being  equal  for  all  no  one  is 
desirous  of  making  it  onerous  for  the  others. 

Moreover,  the  relinquishment  being  made  without  reserve,  the  union 
is  as  perfect  as  possible,  and  no  member  has  any  longer  anything  to  lay 
claim  to;  for  if  there  remained  some  rights  belonging  to  certain  of  them, 
as  there  would  be  no  common  superior  who  could  give  judgment  be- 
tween them  and  the  public,  each  one,  being  on  some  special  point  his 
own  judge,  would  soon  attempt  to  be  judge  on  all;  the  state  of  nature 
would  prevail,  and  the  association  would  necessarily  become  tyrannical 
or  empty. 

Finally  each  one  giving  himself  to  all  gives  himself  to  nobody;  and  as 
there  is  no  member  over  whom  one  does  not  acquire  the  same  right  that 
one  yields  to  him  over  himself,  one  gains  the  equivalent  of  all  that  one 
loses,  and  more  strength  to  protect  what  one  possesses. 

If  then  one  sifts  out  of  the  social  contract  all  that  is  not  essential  in 
character  we  find  that  it  is  reduced  to  the  following  terms:  Each  one 
of  us  gives  to  the  common  slock  his  person  and  all  his  power  to  be  used  under 
the  supreme  direction  of  the  general  will;  and  further,  we  receive  each  member 
as  an  indivisible  part  of  the  whole. 

"Back  to  Nature"  was  Rousseau's  cry,  yet  simplicity  of 
life  and  thought  did  not,  with  him,  mean  action  according  to 
the  inclination  of  the  individual,  for  he  held  that  freedom  of 
speech,  religious  liberty  and  political  tolerance  should  all  be 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH  261 

subordinated  to  the  "general   will,"   which,  if  necessary, 
should  insist  on  what  it  regarded  as  breadth  of  view. 

"£mile"  laid  down  principles  of  education  which  have 
been  followed  by  Pestalozzi  and  studied  by  all  modern  edu- 
cators. It  included  (in  the  "  Profession  of  Faith  of  a  Savoyard 
Vicar")  an  explanation  of  Rousseau's  religious  belief  which 
held  enough  of  the  fundamentals  not  to  be  looked  upon  as 
especially  shocking  today,  but  which  succeeded  then  in 
arousing  both  religionists  and  materialists,  "fimile"  also 
contained  much  simple  good  sense. 

*  You  also  see  that  an  explanation  which  I  can  give  in  writing  in  a 
couple  of  pages  may  take  a  year  in  practice,  for  in  the  course  of  moral 
ideas  we  cannot  advance  too  slowly,  nor  plant  each  step  too  firmly. 
Young  teacher,*  pray  consider  this  example,  and  remember  that  your 
lessons  should  always  be  in  deeds  rather  than  words,  for  children  soon 
forget  what  they  say  or  what  is  said  to  them,  but  not  what  they  have 
done  nor  what  has  been  done  to  them. 

Such  teaching  should  be  given,  as  I  have  said,  sooner  or  later,  as  the 
scholar's  disposition,  gentle  or  turbulent,  requires  it.  The  way  of  using 
it  is  unmistakable;  but  to  omit  no  matter  of  importance  in  a  difficult 
business  let  us  take  another  example. 

Your  ill-tempered  child  destroys  everything  he  touches.  Do  not  vex 
yourself;  put  anything  he  can  spoil  out  of  his  reach.  He  breaks  the 
things  he  is  using;  do  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  give  him  more;  let  him  feel 
the  want  of  them.  He  breaks  the  windows  of  his  room;  let  the  wind 
blow  upon  him  night  and  day,  and  do  not  be  afraid  of  his  catching  cold; 
it  is  better  to  catch  cold  than  to  be  reckless.  Never  complain  of  the  in- 
convenience he  causes  you,  but  let  him  feel  it  first.  At  last  you  will  have 
the  windows  mended  without  saying  anything.  He  breaks  them  again; 
then  change  your  plan;  tell  him  dryly  and  without  anger,  "The  windows 
are  mine,  I  took  pains  to  have  them  put  in,  and  I  mean  to  keep  them 
safe."  Then  you  will  shut  him  up  in  a  dark  place  without  a  window.  At 
this  unexpected  proceeding  he  cried  and  howls;  no  one  heeds.  Soon 
he  gets  tired  and  changes  his  tone;  he  laments  and  sighs;  a  servant  ap- 
pears, the  rebel  begs  to  be  let  out.  Without  seeking  any  excuse  for 
refusing,  the  servant  merely  says,  "I,  too,  have  windows  to  keep,"  and 
goes  away.  At  last,  when  the  child  has  been  there  several  hours,  long 
•  Translation  by  Barbara  Foiley . 


262  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

enough  to  get  very  tired  of  it,  long  enough  to  make  an  impression  on  his 
memory,  some  one  suggests  to  him  that  he  should  offer  to  make  terms 
with  you,  so  that  you  may  set  him  free  and  he  will  never  break  windows 
again.  That  is  just  what  he  wants.  He  will  send  and  ask  you  to  come 
and  see  him;  you  will  come,  he  will  suggest  his  plan,  and  you  will  agree 
to  it  at  once,  saying,  "That  is  a  very  good  idea;  it  will  suit  us  both;  why 
didn't  you  think  of  it  sooner?"  Then  without  asking  for  any  affirma- 
tion or  confirmation  of  his  promise,  you  will  embrace  him  joyfully  and 
take  him  back  at  once  to  his  own  room,  considering  this  agreement 
as  sacred  as  if  he  had  confirmed  it  by  a  formal  oath.  What  idea  do 
you  think  he  will  form  from  these  proceedings,  as  to  the  fulfilment  of  a 
promise  and  its  usefulness?  If  I  am  not  greatly  mistaken,  there  is  not  a 
child  upon  earth,  unless  he  is  utterly  spoilt  already,  who  could  resist  this 
treatment,  or  one  who  would  ever  dream  of  breaking  windows  again  on 
purpose.  Follow  out  the  whole  train  of  thought.  The  naughty  little  fel- 
low hardly  thought  when  he  was  making  a  hole  for  his  beans  that  he  was 
hewing  out  a  cell  in  which  his  own  knowledge  would  soon  imprison  him.* 

We  are  now  in  the  world  of  morals,  the  door  to  vice  is  open.  Deceit 
and  falsehood  are  born  along  with  conventions  and  duties.  As  soon  as 
we  can  do  what  we  ought  not  to  do,  we  try  to  hide  what  we  ought  not 
to  have  done.  As  soon  as  self-interest  makes  us  give  a  promise,  a  greater 
interest  may  make  us  break  it;  it  is  merely  a  question  of  doing  it  with 
impunity;  we  naturally  take  refuge  in  concealment  and  falsehood.  As 
we  have  not  been  able  to  prevent  vice,  we  must  punish  it.  The  sorrows 
of  life  begin  with  its  mistakes. 

I  have  already  said  enough  to  show  that  children  should  never  receive 
punishment  merely  as  such;  it  should  always  come  as  the  natural  conse- 
quence of  their  fault.  Thus  you  will  not  exclaim  against  their  falsehood, 
you  will  not  exactly  punish  them  for  lying,  but  you  will  arrange  that  all 
the  ill  effects  of  lying,  such  as  not  being  believed  when  we  speak  the 
truth,  or  being  accused  of  what  we  have  not  done  in  spite  of  our  pro- 
tests, shall  fall  on  their  heads  when  they  have  told  a  lie.  But  let  us  ex- 
plain what  lying  means  to  the  child. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  lies;  one  concerns  an  accomplished  fact,  the 

*  Moreover  if  the  duty  of  keeping  his  word  were  not  established  in  the  child's  mind 
by  its  own  utility,  the  child's  growing  consciousness  would  soon  impress  it  on  him  as  a 
law  of  conscience,  as  an  innate  principle,  only  requiring  suitable  experiences  for  its  de- 
velopment. This  first  outline  is  not  sketched  by  man,  it  is  engraved  on  the  heart  by  the 
author  of  all  justice.  Take  away  the  primitive  law  of  contract  and  the  obligation  im- 
posed by  contract  and  there  is  nothing  left  of  human  society  but  vanity  and  empty  show. 
He  who  only  keeps  his  word  because  it  is  to  his  own  profit  is  hardly  more  pledged  than  ii 
he  had  given  no  promise  at  all.  This  principle  is  of  the  utmost  importance,  and  deserves 
to  be  thoroughly  studied,  for  man  is  now  beginning  to  be  at  war  with  himself. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH  263 

other  concerns  a  future  duty.  The  first  occurs  when  we  falsely  deny 
or  assert  that  we  did  or  did  not  do  something,  or,  to  put  it  in  general 
terms,  when  we  knowingly  say  what  is  contrary  to  facts.  The  other 
occurs  when  we  promise  what  we  do  not  mean  to  perform,  or,  in  general 
terms,  when  we  profess  an  intention  which  we  do  not  really  mean  to 
carry  out.  These  two  kinds  of  lie  are  sometimes  found  in  combination,* 
but  their  differences  are  my  present  business. 

He  who  feels  the  need  of  help  from  others,  he  who  is  constantly  ex- 
periencing their  kindness,  has  nothing  to  gain  by  deceiving  them;  it 
is  plainly  to  his  advantage  that  they  should  see  things  as  they  are,  lest 
they  should  mistake  his  interests.  It  is  therefore  plain  that  lying  with 
regard  to  actual  facts  is  not  natural  to  children,  but  lying  is  made  nec- 
essary by  the  law  of  obedience;  since  obedience  is  disagreeable,  children 
disobey  as  far  as  they  can  in  secret,  and  the  present  good  of  avoiding 
punishment  or  reproof  outweighs  the  remoter  good  of  speaking  the  truth. 
Under  a  free  and  natural  education  why  should  your  child  lie?  What 
has  he  to  conceal  from  you?  You  do  not  thwart  him,  you  do  not  punish 
him,  you  demand  nothing  from  him.  Why  should  he  not  tell  everything 
to  you  as  simply  as  to  his  little  playmate?  He  cannot  see  anything  more 
risky  in  the  one  course  than  in  the  other. 

The  lie  concerning  duty  is  even  less  natural,  since  promises  to  do  or 
refrain  from  doing  are  conventional  agreements  which  are  outside  the 
state  of  nature  and  detract  from  our  liberty.  Moreover,  all  promises 
made  by  children  are  in  themselves  void;  when  they  pledge  themselves 
they  do  not  know  what  they  are  doing,  for  their  narrow  vision  cannot 
look  beyond  the  present.  A  child  can  hardly  lie  when  he  makes  a  promise; 
for  he  is  only  thinking  how  he  can  get  out  of  the  present  difficulty,  any 
means  which  has  not  an  immediate  result  is  the  same  to  him;  when  he 
promises  for  the  future  he  promises  nothing,  and  his  imagination  is  as 
yet  incapable  of  projecting  him  into  the  future  while  he  lives  in  the 
present.  If  he  could  escape  a  whipping  or  get  a  packet  of  sweets  by 
promising  to  throw  himself  out  of  the  window  to-morrow,  he  would 
promise  on  the  spot.  This  is  why  the  law  disregards  all  promises  made 
by  minors,  and  when  fathers  and  teachers  are  stricter  and  demand  that 
promises  shall  be  kept,  it  is  only  when  the  promise  refers  to  something 
the  child  ought  to  do  even  if  he  had  made  no  promise. 

The  child  cannot  lie  when  he  makes  a  promise,  for  he  does  not  know 
what  he  is  doing  when  he  makes  his  promise.  The  case  is  different 

•  Thus  the  guilty  person,  accused  of  some  evil  deed,  defends  himself  by  asserting  that 
he  is  a  good  man.  His  statement  is  false  in  itself  and  false  in  its  application  to  the  matter 
in  hand. 


264  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

when  he  breaks  his  promise,  which  is  a  sort  of  retrospective  falsehood; 
for  he  clearly  remembers  making  the  promise,  but  he  fails  to  see  the 
importance  of  keeping  it.  Unable  to  look  into  the  future,  he  cannot 
foresee  the  results  of  things,  and  when  he  breaks  his  promises  he  does 
nothing  contrary  to  his  stage  of  reasoning. 

Children's  lies  are  therefore  entirely  the  work  of  their  teachers,  and 
to  teach  them  to  speak  the  truth  is  nothing  less  than  to  teach  them  the 
art  of  lying.  In  your  zeal  to  rule,  control,  and  teach  them,  you  never 
find  sufficient  means  at  your  disposal.  You  wish  to  gain  fresh  influence 
over  their  minds  by  baseless  maxims,  by  unreasonable  precepts;  and  you 
would  rather  they  knew  their  lessons  and  told  lies,  than  leave  them  ig- 
norant and  truthful. 

We,  who  only  give  our  scholars  lessons  in  practice,  who  prefer  to  have 
them  good  rather  than  clever,  never  demand  the  truth  lest  they  should 
conceal  it,  and  never  claim  any  promise  lest  they  should  be  tempted  to 
break  it.  If  some  mischief  has  been  done  in  my  absence  and  I  do  not 
know  who  did  it,  I  shall  take  care  not  to  accuse  Emile,  nor  to  say,  "Did 
you  do  it?"  *  For  in  so  doing  what  should  I  do  but  teach  him  to  deny 
it?  If  his  difficult  temperament  compels  me  to  make  some  agreement 
with  him,  I  will  take  good  care  that  the  suggestion  always  comes  from 
him,  never  from  me;  that  when  he  undertakes  anything  he  has  always  a 
present  and  effective  interest  in  fulfilling  his  promise,  and  if  he  ever 
fails,  this  lie  will  bring  down  on  him  all  the  unpleasant  consequences 
which  he  sees  arising  from  the  natural  order  of  things,  and  not  from  his 
tutor's  vengeance.  But  far  from  having  recourse  to  such  cruel  measures, 
I  feel  almost  certain  that  Emile  will  not  know  for  many  years  what  it 
is  to  lie,  and  that  when  he  does  find  out,  he  will  be  astonished  and  unable 
to  understand  what  can  be  the  use  of  it.  It  is  quite  clear  that  the  less 
I  make  his  welfare  dependent  on  the  will  or  the  opinions  of  others,  the 
less  is  it  to  his  interest  to  lie. 

When  we  are  in  no  hurry  to  teach  there  is  no  hurry  to  demand,  and  we 
can  take  our  time,  so  as  to  demand  nothing  except  under  fitting  condi- 
tions. Then  the  child  is  training  himself,  in  so  far  as  he  is  not  being 
spoilt.  But  when  a  fool  of  a  tutor,  who  does  not  know  how  to  set  about 
his  business,  is  always  making  his  pupil  promise  first  this  and  then  that, 
without  discrimination,  choice,  or  proportion,  the  child  is  puzzled  and 
overburdened  with  all  these  promises,  and  neglects,  forgets  or  even 

*  Nothing  could  be  more  indiscreet  than  such  a  question,  especially  ff  the  child  is 
guilty.  Then  if  he  thinks  you  know  what  he  has  done,  he  will  think  you  are  setting  a. 
trap  for  him,  and  this  idea  can  only  set  him  against  you.  If  he  thinks  you  do  not  know, 
he  will  say  to  himself,  "Why  should  I  make  my  fault  known?"  And  here  we  have  the 
first  temptation  to  falsehood  as  the  direct  result  of  your  foolish  question. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH   265 

scorns  them,  and  considering  them  as  so  many  empty  phrases  he  makes 
a  game  of  making  and  breaking  promises.  Would  you  have  him  keep 
his  promise  faithfully,  be  moderate  in  your  claims  upon  him. 

The  "New  Helolse"  showed  an  appreciation  of  women's 
intelligence  and  abilities  which  won  the  sex  to  Rousseau's 
standard,  while  his  description  of  natural  beauties  stirred 
what  really  amounted  to  a  cult  with  its  own  value,  though 
inclined  to  the  sentimental  and  to  a  support  of  the  larmoyantt 
(tearful)  drama.  Few  men  ever  have  had  influence  in  so 
many  directions  and  that  in  spite  of  living  a  life  whose  almost 
every  practice  was  in  opposition  to  his  preaching.  Rousseau's 
career  is  a  triumph  of  intellect  and  imagination.  Of  course 
his  novel  ideas  stirred  opposition  as  well  as  approval  and  the 
conservative  element  harried  him  into  practical  exile  in 
England  and  drove  him  from  one  spot  to  another  when  he 
returned  to  France. 

Back  of  the  magnificent  work  of  these  outstanding  figures 
was  the  huge  mass  of  polemic  and  argumentative  writing 
which  the  men  nicknamed  the  "Philosophers"  pourea  forth 
in  popular  form,  and  gathered  in  the  Encyclopedia.  The 
convenience  of  a  survey  of  literature,  history,  or  science  has 
always  appealed  to  the  French  mind.  The  massive  under- 
taking of  the  eighteenth  century  was  not  the  first  of  the  sort. 
It  had  had  at  least  three  predecessors.  The  latest,  called  the 
"Historical  and  Critical  Dictionary"  was  the  work  of  PIERRE 
BAYLE  (1647-1706)  and  it  introduced  the  philosophic  dis- 
cussions which  were  developed  by  the  later  Encyclopedists 
in  support  of  the  philosophic  and  economic  writers  whose 
arguments  drew  the  Revolution  to  a  head.  DENIS  DIDEROT 
(1713-1784)  was  editor-in-chief — a  man  of  brilliant  and 
varied  parts,  not  always  a  steady  thinker  but  invariably  a 
facile  writer  on  politics,  religion,  drama,  education,  art — the 
list  is  almost  as  long  as  the  subjects  treated  in  the  thirty-five 
volumes  of  the  colossal  work. 


266  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

His  opinion  of  Rousseau  makes  interesting  reading. 

Letter  to  Mile.  Voland,  1762 

Rousseau,  concerning  whom  you  still  speak,  is  making  a  fine  uproar 
in  Geneva.  The  people,  irritated  by  the  presumption  both  of  the  author 
and  of  his  works,  made  a  great  mob  and  unanimously  declared  to  the 
consistory  of  ministers  that  the  Profession  of  Faith  of  the  Savoyard  Vicar 
was  theirs.  Well,  well!  there  is  a  trifling  event  for  you,  nothing  in  itself, 
which  must  have  caused  20,000  souls  to  abjure  the  Christian  religion 
in  one  day.  Oh!  what  a  good  comedy  this  world  would  be  if  one  were 
not  playing  a  part  in  it;  if  one  existed,  for  example,  at  some  point  of 
space  in  that  portion  betwixt  the  celestial  orbs  where  sleep  the  gods  of 
Epicurus,  very,  very  far  away,  whence  one  would  look  upon  this  globe 
on  which  we  walk  so  haughtily,  no  larger  in  all  than  a  lemon,  and  whence 
one  would  observe  with  a  telescope  the  infinite  multitude  of  diverse 
manners  of  all  these  two-legged  insects  whom  one  calls  manikins!  I 
want  to  see  scenes  of  life  only  in  miniature,  so  that  those  which  are 
atrocious  may  be  reduced  to  an  inch  of  space  and  to  the  size  of  actors 
but  half  a  line  in  height,  and  then  they  would  not  longer  inspire  me  with 
feelings  of  horror  or  with  violent  grief.  But  is  it  not  a  very  queer  thing 
that  the  aversion  which  injustice  causes  us  should  be  a  matter  of  size 
and  of  masses?  I  become  greatly  angered  if  a  large  animal  unjustly 
attacks  another.  I  experience  no  feelings  if  they  are  two  atoms  who 
wound  one  another.  What  an  influence  our  feelings  have  over  our  morals ! 
That's  a  fine  text  to  philosophize  over!  What  say  you,  Uranie? 

It  is  precisely  because  this  Profession  of  Faith  is  a  kind  of  nonsensical 
rubbish  that  the  heads  of  people  are  turned  by  it.  Reason,  which  pre- 
sents nothing  strange  and  new,  does  not  sufficiently  astonish  one,  and 
the  people  wish  to  be  astonished. 

I  see  Rousseau  investigating  on  all  sides  a  Capuchin  friary  where  he 
will  thrust  himself  some  of  these  days.  Nothing  persists  in  his  mind; 
he  is  a  man  of  immoderate  ideas,  who  is  tossed  about  from  atheism  to 
the  baptism  of  the  bells.  Who  knows  where  he  will  stop? 

JEAN-LE-ROND  o'ALEMBERT  (1717-1783)  who  gained  his 
baptismal  name  from  the  fact  that  he  was  a  foundling  picked 
up  on  the  steps  of  the  church  of  St.  John-the-Round,  wrote 
for  the  Encyclopedia  the  mathematical  articles,  the  opening 
essay,  and  a  famous  article  on  Geneva  which  provoked  a  reply 
from  Rousseau.  A  few  paragraphs  from  d'Alembert's  com- 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH   267 

parison  of  Massillon  and  Bourdaloue  will  give  an  idea  of  his 
critical  power. 

Massillon  is  often  compared  with  Bourdaloue,  as  Cicero  is  compared 
with  Demosthenes  or  Racine  with  Corneille.  This  sort  of  comparison, 
fertile  in  contrasts,  only  proves  that  the  writer  has  greater  or  less  skill 
in  making  them.  We  shall  not  allow  ourselves  these  commonplaces 
and  we  shall  limit  ourselves  to  a  single  reflection.  When  Bourdaloue 
appeared  the  pulpit  was  still  barbarous,  competing,  as  Massillon  himself 
says,  with  the  theater  in  buffoonery,  and  with  the  school  in  dryness. 
The  Jesuit  orator  was  the  first  to  discuss  religion  in  a  language  worthy 
of  her;  he  was  solid,  veracious,  and  especially  severe  and  compelling  in 
his  logic. 

If  he  who  first  enters  upon  a  path  has  many  thorns  to  uproot  he  enjoys 
on  the  other  hand,  a  great  advantage  in  that  his  steps  are  more  deeply 
marked  and  on  that  account  more  celebrated  than  those  of  all  his  suc- 
cessors. The  public,  accustomed  for  a  long  time  to  the  reign  of  Bourda- 
loue who  had  been  the  first  object  of  its  worship,  was  long  persuaded, 
especially  while  Massillon  was  living,  that  he  could  have  no  rival,  and 
that  Bourdaloue  from  his  tomb  heard  that  the  cry  of  the  multitude  was 
no  longer  in  his  favor.  At  last  Death,  which  brings  Justice  in  his  train, 
put  the  two  orators  in  their  due  places,  and  Envy,  which  had  taken  his 
from  Massillon  can  now  return  it  to  him  without  fear  of  his  rejoicing 
over  it.  However,  we  shall  abstain  from  giving  him  a  preeminence  which 
grave  judges  doubt;  Bourdaloue's  greatest  glory  is  that  he  still  disputes 
superiority  with  Massillon.  But  if  it  were  to  be  decided  by  counting 
the  number  of  their  readers  Massillon  would  have  the  advantage;  Bour- 
daloue is  no  longer  read  except  by  preachers,  or  the  pious;  his  rival  is 
in  the  hands  of  everybody  who  reads  at  all.  .  .  . 

If,  however,  one  were  trying  to  lay  down  some  sort  of  comparison  of 
these  two  illustrious  orators,  one  might  say  with  a  certain  man  of  wit, 
that  Bourdaloue  had  greater  reasoning  power  and  that  Massillon  was 
the  more  appealing.  An  excellent  sermon  in  every  respect  would  be  one 
in  which  Bourdaloue  had  attended  to  this  first  quality  and  Massillon 
to  the  second.  Perhaps  a  more  perfect  discourse  still  would  be  one  where 
they  did  not  appear  thus  consecutively,  but  where  their  united  talents 
interpenetrate,  so  to  speak,  and  the  dialectician  should  be  at  once  pathetic 
and  logical. 

JEAN  FRANCOIS  MARMONTEL  (1723-1799),  best  known  as 
a  literary  critic,  was  the  author  of  most  of  the  Encyclopedia's 


268  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

articles  on  literature.  He  was  a  man  of  accomplishment  in 
other  lines,  too,  for  he  was  the  editor  of  the  "Mercure  de 
France"  and  the  author  of  charming  "Memoirs"  from  which 
the  following  extract  is  taken.  Knowing  the  misery  of  France 
at  tlu's  time  it  is  relieving  to  think  that  there  might  be  house- 
holds where  poverty  did  not  spell  wretchedness. 

Add  to  the  household  my  grandmother's  three  sisters  and  my  mother's 
sister — the  aunt  who  is  still  left  to  me.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  these 
women  and  of  a  swarm  of  children  that  my  father  took  his  place  as  the 
solitary  man.  All  this  family  lived  on  very  little  money.  Order,  economy, 
work,  a  little  business  and  above  all  frugality  kept  us  in  ease.  The  small 
garden  produced  almost  enough  vegetables  for  the  needs  of  the  house; 
the  enclosure  gave  us  fruits,  and  our  quinces,  our  apples  and  pears, 
honey  sweets  for  our  bees,  and  made  most  delicious  breakfasts  through- 
out the  winter  for  the  children  and  the  old  women.  The  flock  of  the 
sheepfold  of  St.  Thomas  provided  now  the  women  and  now  the  children 
with  woollen  clothing;  my  aunts  spun  it;  they  spun  also  the  hemp  of 
the  field  which  gave  us  cloth,  and  in  the  evening  when  by  the  light  of 
lamp  fed  by  oil  from  our  nuts,  the  young  people  of  the  neighborhood 
came  to  strip  with  us  this  beautiful  hemp,  they  made  a  lovely  picture. 
The  grain  harvest  of  our  little  farm  assured  our  subsistence,  the  wax  and 
honey  from  the  bees  which  one  of  my  aunts  cared  for  scrupulously  was 
a  revenue  resulting  from  but  small  expense;  the  oil  pressed  from  our 
nuts  while  they  were  still  fresh,  had  a  taste,  a  fragrance  which  we  pre- 
ferred to  the  taste  and  perfume  of  olive  oil.  Our  buckwheat  cakes  (called 
in  the  speech  of  the  country,  tourtus),  moist  and  smoking  hot,  with  good 
Mont  d'Or  butter,  we  considered  the  most  royal  dainty.  I  know  not 
what  dishes  could  have  seemed  better  to  us  than  our  radishes  and  chest- 
nuts, and  on  winter  evenings  when  these  splendid  radishes  were  broiling 
on  the  hearth  or  we  heard  the  water  boiling  in  the  vessel  in  which  these 
savory,  sweet  chestnuts  were  cooking,  our  hearts  beat  with  happiness. 
I  remember,  too,  the  fragrance  that  a  fine  quince  roasted  beneath  the 
ashes  gave  forth  and  the  pleasure  that  our  grandmother  took  in  dividing 
it  among  us. 

Another  Encyclopedist  was  ANNE-ROBERT-JACQUES  TUR- 
GOT  (1727-1781),  Louis  XVI's  Minister  of  Finance  and  the 
author  of  well-considered  histories  and  of  "  Reflections  on  the 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH  269 

Formation  and  Distribution  of  Wealth,"  a  work  of  per- 
manent economic  value. 

PROGRESS  IN  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 

And  meanwhile  from  the  heart  of  this  barbarous  epoch  are  to  issue 
some  day  sciences  and  perfected  arts.  In  the  midst  of  ignorance  an  in- 
sensible progress  is  preparing  the  brilliant  successes  of  the  last  centuries. 
Under  this  soil  the  feeble  roots  of  a  distant  harvest  are  already  develop- 
ing. Cities,  among  all  civilized  people,  are  by  their  nature  the  centre  of 
commerce  and  of  the  forces  of  society.  They  continue  to  subsist,  and 
if  the  spirit  of  the  feudal  government,  born  from  ancient  German  cus- 
toms, combined  with  accidental  circumstances  had  humbled  them, 
there  was  in  the  constitution  of  the  states  a  contradiction  which  would 
remedy  this  in  the  long  run.  I  see  ere  long  cities  being  raised  up  under 
the  protection  of  princes,  who,  stretching  out  their  hands  to  an  oppressed 
nation,  will  diminish  the  power  of  their  vessels,  and  increase  little  by 
little  that  of  the  people. 

Already  we  see  the  royal  authority  reborn  in  France;  the  power  of  the 
people  established  in  England;  the  cities  of  Italy  formed  into  republics 
and  presenting  the  appearance  of  ancient  Greece;  the  small  monarchies 
of  Spain  driving  the  Moors  before  them,  and  uniting  little  by  little  into 
a  single  nation. 

Soon  the  seas  which  until  then  had  divided  the  nations,  become  through 
the  invention  of  the  compass,  their  bond.  The  Portuguese  in  the  Orient 
and  the  Spanish  in  the  Occident  discover  new  worlds.  The  globe  is  at 
last  known.  Already  the  mixture  of  barbaric  tongues  with  Latin  has 
produced  new  languages  in  the  course  of  centuries;  while  Italian,  less 
distant  from  their  common  source,  less  mingled  with  strange  tongues, 
is  raised  to  the  first  place  in  elegance  of  style  and  beauty  of  poetry.  The 
Ottomans  spread  over  Asia  and  Europe  like  an  impetuous  wind,  have 
succeeded  in  conquering  the  empire  of  Constantinople  and  are  dispersing 
throughout  the  Occident  the  feeble  sparks  of  the  sciences  that  Greece 
still  preserves. 

Quotations  possible  to  the  limits  of  this  volume  can  give 
no  real  idea  of  the  spirit  of  the  philosophic  writers  of  this 
period.  The  country's  state — of  poverty,  of  bigotry,  of  cor- 
ruption, of  mal-administration,  of  brutality — was  one  to 


270  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

warrant  the  gravest  fears.  These  men  saw  its  danger  and 
they  consciously  set  themselves  to  arouse  a  public  opinion 
which  should  demand  reforms,  trusting  that  when  the  hour 
came  the  necessary  men  of  affairs  would  come  with  it.  They 
found  a  thinking  public,  eager  to  read  Voltaire's  appeals  to 
reason,  willing  to  study  CONDORCET'S  (1743-1794)  exposition 
of  liberalism  and  democracy,  sensitive  to  the  imaginative 
urging  of  Rousseau.  They  poured  forth  argument  whose 
acceptance  they  believed  would  release  men  from  enslave- 
ment to  cruelty  and  superstition  and  avarice. 

One  of  Condorcet's  optimistic  theories  concerned  the  per- 
fectibility of  the  human  race.  Its  argument  ran  like  this: 

The  possibility  of  the  process  of  organic  perfection  or  degeneration  of 
races  whether  in  the  vegetable  or  animal  kingdom  may  be  regarded  as 
one  of  the  general  laws  of  nature. 

This  law  embraces  human  kind  and  without  doubt  no  one  will  deny 
that  the  progress  in  preventive  medicine,  the  use  of  more  wholesome 
food  and  more  sensible  dwelling  houses,  a  routine  of  life  which  would 
develop  strength  by  exercise  without  undermining  it  by  overdoing,  that, 
in  short,  the  destruction  of  the  two  most  active  causes  of  degradation, 
namely  excessive  poverty  and  too  great  wealth,  should  prolong  for  man- 
kind the  length  of  their  lives  and  assure  for  them  a  more  steady  well- 
being  and  a  more  robust  constitution.  One  feels  that  the  progress  of 
preventive  medicine  which  has  become  more  efficacious  with  the  progress 
of  reason  and  of  social  order,  should  cause  contagious  or  transmissible 
diseases  to  disappear  in  the  long  run  and  also  those  general  maladies 
which  owe  their  origin  to  climates,  foods,  or  kind  of  work.  It  would 
not  be  difficult  to  prove  that  this  belief  should  extend  to  nearly  all  other 
illnesses  whose  distant  causes  we  shall  probably  come  to  understand. 
Would  it  be  absurd,  then,  to  suppose  that  this  perfectibility  of  the  human 
species  should  be  regarded  as  susceptible  of  an  indefinite  progress,  that 
a  time  might  arrive  when  death  would  no  longer  result  except  from  extra- 
ordinary accidents  or  from  the  slower  and  slower  destruction  of  vital 
forces,  and  that,  in  short,  the  duration  of  the  space  between  birth  and 
this  destruction  has  no  assignable  limit?  Certainly  man  will  not  become 
immortal;  but  cannot  the  interval  between  the  moment  when  he  com- 
mences to  live  and  the  common  time  when  naturally,  without  sickness, 
without  accident,  he  experiences  difficulty  in  living  be  continually  in- 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH  271 

creased?  Since  we  speak  here  of  a  progress  susceptible  of  being  repre- 
sented with  precision  by  numerical  quantities  or  by  lines,  the  time  has 
come  where  it  is  as  well  to  develop  the  two  meanings  of  which  the  word 
"  indefinite"  is  susceptible. 

In  fact,  this  mean  duration  of  life  which  should  continually  lengthen 
according  as  we  delve  into  the  future,  may  receive  continued  increase 
resulting  from  a  law  such  that  it  continually  approaches  an  unlimited 
length  without  the  possibility  of  ever  attaining  it;  or  indeed  following 
a  law  such  that  this  same  duration  may  attain,  in  the  immensity  of  the 
centuries,  an  extent  greater  than  any  determined  quantity  whatever 
which  might  be  assigned  to  it  as  a  limit.  In  this  latter  case  the  accretions 
are  really  indefinite  in  the  most  absolute  sense  since  there  exists  no  limit 
within  which  they  must  stop. 

Louis  XV  died  in  1774.  His  grandson  and  successor, 
Louis  XVI,  was  well-meaning  but  young  and  not  forceful. 
He  had  the  good  sense  to  restore  the  parliaments,  and  to 
commit  the  finances  to  Turgot's  administration  and  then  to 
Necker's.  Increasing  indebtedness  due  to  his  support  of  the 
American  revolutionists  against  England,  and  increasing 
disturbance  at  home  obliged  him  to  summon  the  States 
General,  its  first  meeting  in  175  years.  Previously  the  three 
estates  had  met  separately  and  had  voted  by  classes;  now, 
after  some  dissension,  they  met  together  and  voted  as  in- 
dividuals. From  their  decision  not  to  dissolve  until  they  had 
adopted  a  written  constitution  they  took  the  name  of  the 
National  Constituent  Assembly.  On  the  i4th  of  July,  1789, 
the  Bastille  was  destroyed  by  a  mob  which  feared  that  the 
king  was  planning  to  use  it  to  overawe  the  city.  Its  fall 
marks  the  beginning  of  the  Revolution.  The  attack  also 
instituted  the  orgy  of  force  and  brutality  which  sent  to  the 
guillotine  the  king  and  queen  and  a  million  of  their  subjects. 
The  aristocrats  fell  first  after  some  show  of  judicial  condemna- 
tion; then  the  factions  flew  at  each  other's  throats  until  at 
last  the  mere  whim  of  an  irresponsible  tyrant  was  enough  to 
cause  a  head  to  roll  in  the  sawdust.  Everything  was  over- 
turned;— the  calendar  was  reorganized,  the  months  renamed, 


272  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

religious  observances  were  forbidden,  society  was  disrupted, 
anarchy  replaced  government. 

At  the  very  beginning  of  the  Revolution  ANDR&  CH£NIER 
(1762-1794)  floated  in  a  calm  backwater  unruffled  by  the 
bursting  storm  that  sent  him  to  the  guillotine.  He  found 
himself  sufficiently  calm  to  write  about  "Nature"  and  to 
compose  idylls  on  Greek  models.  His  lyrics  recall  Ronsard. 
Perhaps  best  of  all  his  verse  is  the  poem  from  which  the  follow- 
ing stanzas  are  taken: 

THE  YOUNG  CAPTIVE 

(From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature") 

"The  corn  in  peace  fills  out  its  golden  ear; 

Through  the  long  summer  days,  the  flowers  without  a  fear 

Drink  in  the  strength  of  noon. 

And  I,  a  flower  like  them,  as  young,  as  fair,  as  pure, 
Though  at  the  present  hour  some  trouble  I  endure, 

I  would  not  die  so  soon! 

"No,  let  the  stoic  heart  call  upon  Death  as  king! 
For  me,  I  weep  and  hope;  before  the  bitter  wind 

I  bend  like  some  lithe  palm. 

If  there  be  long,  sad  days,  others  are  bright  and  fleet; 
Alas!  what  honeyed  draught  holds  nothing  but  the  sweet? 

What  sea  is  ever  calm? 

"And  still  within  my  breast  nestles  illusion  bright; 
In  vain  these  prison  walls  shut  out  the  noonday  light; 

Fair  Hope  has  lent  me  wings. 
So  from  the  fowler's  net,  again  set  free  to  fly, 
More  swift,  more  joyous,  through  the  summer  sky, 

Philomel  soars  and  sings. 

"Is  it  my  lot  to  die?    In  peace  I  lay  me  down, 

In  peace  awake  again,  a  peace  nor  care  doth  drown, 

Nor  fell  remorse  destroy. 
My  welcome  shines  from  every  morning  face, 
And  to  these  downcast  souls  my  presence  in  this  place 

Almost  restores  their  joy. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH  273 

"The  voyage  of  life  is  but  begun  for  me, 
And  of  the  landmarks  I  must  pass,  I  see 

So  few  behind  me  stand. 
At  life's  long  banquet,  now  before  me  set, 
My  lips  have  hardly  touched  the  cup  as  yet 

Still  brimming  in  my  hand. 

"I  only  know  the  spring;  I  would  see  autumn  brown; 
Like  the  bright  sun,  that  all  the  seasons  crown, 

I  would  round  out  my  year. 
A  tender  flower,  the  sunny  garden's  boast, 
I  have  but  seen  the  fires  of  morning's  host; 

Would  eve  might  find  me  here! 

"O  Death,  canst  thou  not  wait?    Depart  from  me,  and  go 
To  comfort  those  sad  hearts  whom  pale  despair,  and  woe, 

And  shame,  perchance  have  wrung. 
For  me  the  woods  still  offer  verdant  ways, 
The  Love  their  kisses,  and  the  Muses  praise: 

I  would  not  die  so  young!" 

Thus,  captive  too,  and  sad,  my  lyre  none  the  less 
Woke  at  the  plaint  of  one  who  breathed  its  own  distress, 

Youth  in  a  prison  cell; 

And  throwing  off  the  yoke  that  weighed  upon  me  too, 
I  strove  in  all  the  sweet  and  tender  words  I  knew 

Her  gentle  grief  to  tell. 

Melodious  witness  of  my  captive  days, 

These  rhymes  shall  make  some  lover  of  my  lays 

Seek  the  maid  I  have  sung. 
Grace  sits  upon  her  brow,  and  all  shall  share, 
Who  see  her  charms,  her  grief  and  her  despair: 

They  too  "must  die  so  young"! 

After  Ch£nier  the  literary  output  of  the  twelve  Revolu- 
tionary years  is  what  might  be  expected  in  a  time  of  such 
upheaval — various  light  and  amusing  forms,  and  oratory. 
There  were  novels  of  no  importance,  rhymes  catching  rather 
than  commanding,  comic  operas,  dramas  not  original  but 
borrowed  or  paraphrased  from  bygone  masters.  Human 


274  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

nature  cannot  respond  indefinitely  to  the  same  stimulus; 
men  and  women  turned  from  scenes  of  hatred  and  blood  to 
books  or  plays  which  were  meant  to  be  amusing  and  amusing 
only.  There  were  grisly  jokes  in  these  "amusing"  produc- 
tions— jokes  about  the  guillotine  and  epigrams  that  must 
have  made  Liberty,  Equality  and  Fraternity  shudder  at  the 
atrocities  committed  in  their  names.  But  people  who  could 
look  without  agitation  at  the  sharp  descent  of  the  knife  so 
soon  repeated  that  it  was  not  worth  while  to  wipe  it  off  were 
not  fastidious  about  the  books  they  read  or  the  plays  they 
saw.  Perfection  of  workmanship  never  died,  however.  It 
would  take  more  than  a  Revolution  to  kill  the  "Gallic 
spirit"  or  the  Gallic  craftsmanship.  MICHEL  JEAN  SEDAINE 
(1719-1797)  was  the  most  amusing  playwright  of  this  time, 
ECOUCHARD  LE  BRUN  (1729-1807)  the  most  brilliant  maker 
of  epigrams.  This  is  an  often  quoted  example. 

"I've  just  been  robbed."    "Your  trouble  gives  me  grief." 
"My  manuscripts."    "I'm  sorry  for  the  thief!" 

Quite  naturally  declamation  both  on  the  platform  and  in 
newspapers  was  another  form  popular  in  appeal.  Speakers 
inflamed  passions  already  stirred;  journalists  set  the  match 
to  trains  already  laid.  There  was  small  attempt  at  guidance 
or  explanation;  the  days  of  philosophizing  were  over;  one 
cry  after  another  howled  in  the  ears  of  a  people  eager  for 
more  and  bloodier  excitements — not  the  battle  cry  that 
rings  of  patriotism,  but  the  shriek  of  a  mob  leader  urging  his 
followers  to  savage  destruction. 

Of  the  men  who  may  be  called  worthy  orators  MIRABEAU 
(1749-1791),  who  was  truly  an  economist  and  truly  sincere, 
stands  at  the  head  by  virtue  of  his  incomparable  eloquence 
while  DANTON  (1759-1794)  was  more  popular  because  of  his 
persuasive  power. 

The  literary  man  seldom  leads  a  pampered  life;  in  the 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION— THE  EIGHTEENTH      275 

eighteenth  century  his  path  was  made  especially  thorny  if  he 
dabbled  in  politics.  And  who  did  not?  Philosopher,  econ- 
omist, playwright,  poet — no  one  could  resist  touching  on  the 
affairs  of  the  day — and  when  they  did  not  they  were  accused 
of  it.  Before  the  Revolution  the  Bastille,  the  Abbaye  and 
the  Temple  after  its  destruction,  often  housed  men  whose 
only  crimes  were  the  misuse  of  their  pens. 

It  is  to  the  Revolution  that  French  literature  owes  two  of 
its  best  known  songs.  One,  the  " Ca  Ira"  (" It  will  succeed ") 
gained  stanza  after  stanza  to  fit  the  various  stages  of  the 
Revolution.  A  literal  translation  gives  a  totally  inadequate 
idea  of  its  swing  and  spirit. 

Ah,  it  will  go,  it  will  go,  it  will  go! 
The  people  today  repeat  it  unceasingly — 

Ah,  it  will  go,  it  will  go,  it  will  go! 
In  spite  of  mutineers  all  will  succeed! 
Our  enemies  are  in  confusion 
And  we  shall  sing  "  Alleluia!  " 

Ah,  it  will  go,  it  will  go,  it  will  go! 
When  Boileau  in  days  gone  by  talked  of  the  clergy 
He  predicted  this  outcome  like  any  prophet; 
When  they  sing  my  little  song 
They'll  say  with  joy 

Ah,  it  will  go,  it  will  go,  it  will  go! 
in  spite  of  mutineers  all  will  succeed ! 

The  other,  the  "Marseillaise"  by  Rouget  de  Lisle  (1760- 
1836),  an  officer,  has  won  after  various  ups  and  downs  a  final 
place  as  the  national  hymn  of  France. 

THE  MARSEILLAISE 

(Translated  by  John  Oienford) 

Come,  children  of  your  country,  come, 

New  glory  dawns  upon  the  world, 
Our  tyrants,  rushing  to  their  doom, 

Their  bloody  standards  have  unfurled; 


376  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Already  on  our  plains  we  hear 
The  murmurs  of  a  savage  horde; 
They  threaten  with  the  murderous  sword 
Your  comrades  and  your  children  dear. 

Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 


Those  banded  serfs, — what  would  they  have, 

By  tyrant  kings  together  brought? 
Whom  are  those  fetters  to  enslave 

Which  long  ago  their  hands  have  wrought? 
You,  Frenchmen,  you  they  would  enchain; 

Doth  not  the  thought  your  bosoms  fire? 

The  ancient  bondage  they  desire 
To  force  upon  your  necks  again. 

Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 

Those  marshalled  foreigners, — shall  they 

Make  laws  to  reach  the  Frenchman's  hearth? 
Shall  hireling  troops  who  fight  for  pay 

Strike  down  our  warriors  to  the  earth? 
God!  shall  we  bow  beneath  the  weight 

Of  hands  that  slavish  fetters  wear? 

Shall  ruthless  despots  once  more  dare 
To  be  the  masters  of  our  fate? 

Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 

Then  tremble,  tyrants, — traitors  all, — 

Ye,  whom  both  friends  and  foes  despise; 
On  you  shall  retribution  fall, 

Your  crimes  shall  gain  a  worthy  prize. 
Each  man  opposes  might  to  might; 

And  when  our  youthful  heroes  die 

Our  France  can  well  their  place  supply; 
We're  soldiers  all  with  you  to  fight. 

Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  DISCUSSION-THE  EIGHTEENTH   277 

Yet,  generous  warriors,  still  forbear, 

To  deal  on  all  your  vengeful  blows; 
The  train  of  hapless  victims  spare, 

Against  their  will  they  are  our  foes, 
But  O,  those  despots  stained  with  blood, 

Those  traitors  leagued  with  base  Bouill6, 

Who  make  their  native  land  their  prey; — 
Death  to  the  savage  tiger-brood! 

Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilise  the  land. 

And  when  our  glorious  sires  are  dead, 

Their  virtues  we  shall  surely  find 
When  on  the  selfsame  path  we  tread, 

And  track  the  fame  they  leave  behind. 
Less  to  survive  them  we  desire 

Than  to  partake  their  noble  grave; 

The  proud  ambition  we  shall  have 
To  live  for  vengeance  or  expire. 

Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 

Come,  love  of  country,  guide  us  now, 

Endow  our  vengeful  arms  with  might, 
And,  dearest  liberty,  do  thou 

Aid  thy  defenders  in  the  fight. 
Unto  our  flags  let  victory, 

Called  by  thy  stirring  accents,  haste; 

And  may  thy  dying  foes  at  last 
Thy  triumph  and  our  glory  see. 

Then  up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  withstand; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS— THE 
NINETEENTH 

AT  the  opening  of  the  nineteenth  century  France  was  in  no 
state  to  encourage  or  to  enjoy  literature.  Napoleon  was 
steadying  politics,  but  his  methods  were  deadening  to  the 
creative  impulse.  Enthusiasts  for  the  "classic"  still  were 
turning  out  prose  correct  but  dull,  rhymesters  were  walking 
decorously  through  accurately  rhythmical  lines,  and  political 
essayists  were  dashing  off  arguments  and  appeals  which 
grew  less  and  less  forceful  as  Napoleon's  autocratic  censorship 
grew  more  and  more  smothering.  During  the  progress  of  the 
wars  that  convulsed  Europe  in  the  first  fifteen  years  of  the 
century  imagination  seemed  to  have  no  play,  and  the  reac- 
tionary period  when  Louis  XVIII  was  opposing  progress 
and  Charles  X  was  trying  to  restore  absolutism  was  a  climax 
to  a  time  of  turbulence  so  long  that  it  left  the  literary  spirit 
exhausted.  Whether  or  not  the  accession  in  1830  of  Louis 
Philippe,  the  "citizen  king,"  gave  the  mass  of  the  people  a 
feeling  of  unity  and  balance  sufficient  to  make  for  intellectual 
regeneration  it  is  hard  to  say,  but  it  was  in  this  year  that  the 
Romantic  Movement  was  born,  like  Minerva,  fully  equipped. 

Yet  it  had  been  foreshadowed.  Rousseau's  descriptions 
had  turned  men's  thoughts  to  Nature  with  appreciation  of 
her  'possibilities  not  only  for  giving  enjoyment  but  for  fur- 
nishing "copy."  He  had  some  followers  of  eminence.  BER- 
NARDINE  DE  ST.  PIERRE  (1737-1814)  was  one.  He  wrote 
sketches  and  essays  on  many  themes,  but  his  romance  of 
"Paul  and  Virginia"  remains  popular  for  its  story  of  touch- 

278 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  279 

ing  affection  and  its  pictures  of  tropical  scenery.  Here  is  the 
account  of  the  storm  which  will  recall  the  well-known  paint- 
ing "The  Storm"  or  "Paul  and  Virginia"  by  P.  A.  Cot. 

One  of  those  summers  which  from  time  to  time  lay  waste  countries  sit- 
uated within  the  tropics  began  its  ravages  here.  It  was  towards  the  end  of 
December,  when  the  sun  in  Capricorn  for  three  weeks  heats  the  Isle  of 
France  with  its  vertical  rays.  The  south-east  wind  which  prevails  there 
nearly  the  whole  year  through  fell  to  a  calm.  Lofty  whirlwinds  of  dust 
were  raised  over  the  roads  and  remained  suspended  in  the  air.  On  every 
side  the  soil  cracked  open  and  the  grass  was  burned.  Hot  gusts  blew  fit- 
fully from  the  mountain  sides,  and  most  of  the  streams  were  dried  up.  No 
cloud  rose  from  the  sea,  but,  during  the  day,  ruddy  mists  rose  above  its 
stretches  and  appeared  at  sunset  like  the  flames  of  a  conflagration.  Even 
night  brought  no  relief  to  the  stifling  atmosphere.  The  moon's  red  orb 
magnified  out  of  all  measure,  rose  from  a  haze-laden  horizon.  The  herds, 
suffering  on  the  sides  of  the  hills,  their  necks  stretched  towards  the  sky, 
sniffed  the  air  and  filled  the  valleys  with  mournful  bellowings.  Even  the 
Caffir  who  led  them  stretched  himself  on  the  earth.  Everywhere  the  sun 
was  burning  hot  and  the  thick  air  throbbed  with  the  buzzing  of  insects 
seeking  to  quench  their  thirst  in  the  blood  of  men  and  animals. 

Meanwhile,  the  excessive  heat  drew  from  the  ocean  vapours  which  hung 
over  the  island  like  a  vast  umbrella.  The  mountain  peaks  gathered  them 
around  about,  and  long  trails  of  fire  from  time  to  time  shot  from  their 
smoky  craters.  Soon  terrific  thunder  reverberated  through  forest  and  plain 
and  valley;  frightful  sheets  of  rain,  like  cataracts,  fell  from  heaven.  Foam- 
ing torrents  dashed  down  the  sides  of  the  mountain:  the  bottom  of  the  val- 
ley became  a  sea;  the  plateau  where  the  huts  rested,  a  little  island;  and 
the  entrance  of  the  valley,  a  sluice  where  earth,  trees  and  rocks  rushed  along 
with  the  roaring  torrent. 

MADAME  DE  STAEL  (1766-1817),  bridged  the  century  with 
St.  Pierre  but  her  influence  on  the  literature  that  followed  her 
is  linked  with  that  of  Chateaubriand.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  Necker,  the  banker  who  had  been  Louis  XVI's  financial 
adviser,  met  many  people  of  the  literary  world  in  her  mother's 
salon,  and  married  Baron  de  Stael-Holstein.  Her  marriage 
proved  unhappy,  and  as  she  fell  into  disfavor  with  Napoleon 
she  was  forced  to  spend  many  years  out  of  Paris.  In  Switzer- 


280  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

land  and  Italy  and  especially  in  Germany  she  gathered  much 
information  which  she  wove  into  her  books.  "Corinne  or 
Italy"  had  a  wide  vogue  in  days  when  readers  were  more 
willing  than  they  are  now  to  have  the  pill  of  information  but 
scantily  sugared  by  fiction.  The  following  extract  will  give  an 
idea  of  the  possibilities  of  enlightenment  in  "Corinne." 

Oswald  and  Corinne  first  went  to  the  Pantheon,  which  is  called  to-day 
Sainte  Marie  de  la  Rotonde.  In  Italy  Catholicism  has  everywhere  become 
the  heir  of  paganism;  but  the  Pantheon  is  the  only  antique  temple  in  Rome 
which  is  preserved  entire,  the  only  one  where  one  can  see  the  beauty  of 
architecture  of  the  Romans  as  a  whole,  and  the  peculiar  character  of  their 
creed.  Oswald  and  Corinne  stopped  at  the  Pantheon  to  admire  the  portico 
of  the  temple  and  its  sustaining  columns. 

Corinne  observed  to  Lord  Nevil  that  the  Pantheon  was  constructed  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  appear  much  larger  than  it  was. 

"  The  Church  of  St.  Peter,"  said  she,  "  produces  quite  a  different  effect; 
at  first  you  believe  it  not  so  vast  as  it  is  in  reality.  The  illusion  so  favorable 
to  the  Pantheon  comes,  we  are  assured,  because  there  is  more  space  be- 
tween the  columns,  and  the  light  has  free  play  about  it;  but  above  all 
because  almost  no  ornamental  details  are  to  be  seen,  while  St.  Peter  is 
overloaded  with  them.  It  is  in  this  way  that  ancient  art  outlined  great 
masses  and  left  the  filling  in  of  details  to  the  imagination  of  those  persons 
who  looked  at  it.  We  moderns  in  every  way  say  too  much." 

"  This  temple,"  Corinne  went  on,  "was  consecrated  by  Agrippa,  the 
favorite  of  Augustus,  to  his  friend  or  rather  his  master.  This  master  how- 
ever had  the  modesty  to  refuse  the  dedication  of  the  temple;  and  Agrippa 
found  himself  obliged  to  dedicate  it  to  all  the  Gods  of  Olympus,  to  replace 
the  god  of  the  earth — power.  There  was  a  bronze  chariot  at  the  peak  of 
the  Pantheon,  on  which  the  statues  of  Augustus  and  Agrippa  were  placed. 
On  each  side  of  the  portico  these  same  statues  were  found  in  another  form; 
and  on  the  frontispiece  of  the  temple  one  still  reads:  AGRIPPA  CONSE- 
CRATED IT.  Augustus  gave  his  name  to  his  century,  because  he  made 
of  this  century  an  epoch  of  the  human  mind.  The  masterpieces  of  different 
sorts  that  his  contemporaries  achieved,  formed,  so  to  speak,  the  rays  of  his 
aureole.  He  knew  how  to  honor  suitably  men  of  genius  who  cultivated 
letters,  and  among  posterity  his  glory  was  well  made  by  it." 

It  was  Madame  de  StaeTs  volume  "On  Germany"  which 
brought  to  French  writers  an  interest  in  their  neighbors 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH   281 

across  the  Rhine  whose  literature  was  but  little  known  to 
them.  When  they  had  read  Goethe  and  Schiller  and  had 
put  them  with  Scott  and  Byron  on  their  list  of  acquaintances 
they  were  ready  to  adopt  Madame  de  StaeTs  name  for  them — 
"romantic"  and  to  respond  to  Chateaubriand's  invitation 
to  step  into  the  open  and  to  pass  the  emotions  that  it  aroused 
through  their  individuality.  The  literature  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  taken  as  a  whole,  had  been  either  deadly  earnest  or 
foolishly  frivolous.  People  cannot  live  forever  at  high  pres- 
sure, nor  do  inanities  relieve  the  strain  adequately;  the  time 
had  come  when  they  wanted  to  think  naturally  about  sub- 
jects of  natural  interest  and  to  write  their  thoughts  as  natu- 
rally as  they  spoke  them.  Even  in  the  freedom  of  the  twen- 
tieth century  there  is  a  prejudice  against  calling  a  spade  a 
spade;  in  the  days  when  the  "classic"  influence  was  upper- 
most no  follower  of  the  rules  prescribed  for  verse  or  diction 
would  have  called  a  dog  a  dog  or  a  cock  a  cock.  Such  com- 
monplace creatures  must  be  darkly  described  in  elegantly 
vague  language. 

The  laws  of  meter  were  of  the  strictest.  Subjects  were 
chosen  from  antiquity  and  their  treatment  was  one  of  im- 
personal analysis.  Setting  was  utterly  destitute  of  local 
color.  The  "unities"  were  binding. 

Religious  feeling  had  been  looked  upon  as  weakness  in  the 
skeptical  days  when  Reason  ruled;  but  man  is  at  heart  reli- 
gious and  the  absence  of  religion  from  life  and  letters  had 
been  a  suppression  and  not  an  uprooting.  Now  the  pendulum 
swung  back  and  man  allowed  himself  to  feel  and  to  speak  the 
old  truth  that  lay  in  him. 

CHATEAUBRIAND  (1768-1848),  himself  was  not  an  image- 
breaker;  it  was  not  he  who  threw  the  bomb  among  the  formal- 
ists, but  he  did  write  with  an  infinite  wealth  of  expression  about 
scenes  rich  in  local  color  which  he  described  as  his  tempera- 
ment felt — and  such  outspokenness  foreshadowed  revolution. 


282  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Here  is  a  moonlight  scene  from 

A  NIGHT  AMONG  THE  SAVAGES  OF  AMERICA 

(From  "Half  Hours  with  the  Best  French  Authors") 

The  moon  was  at  the  highest  point  of  the  heavens;  here  and  there  at 
wide,  dear  intervals  twinkled  a  thousand  stars.  Sometimes  the  moon 
rested  on  a  group  of  clouds  which  looked  like  the  summit  of  high  mountains 
crowned  with  snow:  little  by  little  these  clouds  grew  longer  and  rolled  out 
into  transparent  and  waving  zones  of  white  satin,  or  changed  into  light 
flakes  of  froth,  into  innumerable  wandering  flocks  on  the  blue  plains  of  the 
firmament.  Again  the  arch  of  Heaven  seemed  transformed  into  a  shore 
on  which  one  saw  level  rows,  parallel  lines  such  as  are  made  by  the  regular 
ebb  and  flow  of  the  sea;  a  gust  of  wind  tore  this  veil  again  and  there  ap- 
peared everywhere  in  the  sky  great  banks  of  dazzling  white  down,  so  soft 
that  one  could  almost  feel  their  softness  and  their  elasticity.  The  scene 
on  the  earth  was  not  less  delightful:  the  silvery  and  velvety  light  of  the 
moon  floated  silently  over  the  top  of  the  forest,  and  here  and  there  pene- 
trated through  the  trees,  throwing  rays  of  light  even  in  the  deepest  shadows. 
The  narrow  brook  which  flowed  at  my  feet,  burying  itself  from  time  to 
time  amidst  thickets  of  oak,  willow,  and  sugar  trees,  and  reappearing  a 
little  farther  off  in  the  glades,  all  sparkling  with  the  constellations  of  the 
night,  seemed  like  a  ribbon  of  azure  silk  spotted  with  diamond  stars,  and 
striped  with  black  bands.  Across  the  river  in  a  wide  natural  meadow  the 
moonlight  rested  quietly  on  the  pasture,  where  it  spread  out  like  a  sheet. 
A  few  birch  trees  scattered  here  and  there  over  the  savannah,  sometimes 
blending  with  the  caprice  of  the  winds  into  the  background,  seemed  to  be 
surrounded  with  pale  gauze,  sometimes  rising  from  their  chalky  trunks 
hidden  by  the  darkness,  formed,  as  it  were,  islands  of  floating  shadows  on  an 
immovable  sea  of  light.  Nearby,  all  was  silence  and  stillness  save  for  the 
falling  of  the  leaves,  the  rough  passing  of  a  sudden  gust,  or  the  rare  and 
broken  whooping  of  the  grey  owl;  while  in  the  distance  the  solemn  rolling 
of  Niagara  was  heard,  as  it  echoed  in  the  stillness  of  the  night  from  desert 
to  desert,  and  died  away  in  the  solitary  forest. 

THE  FRANKS 

The  whole  appearance  of  the  Roman  army  served  but  to  make  more 
formidable  the  army  of  the  enemy  by  contrast  with  its  savage  simplicity. 

Clothed  in  the  skins  of  bears,  seals,  aurochs,  and  wild  boars  the  Franks 
looked  from  a  distance  like  a  drove  of  wild  beasts.  A  short  close  tunic 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  283 

displayed  the  height  of  their  figures  and  did  not  conceal  their  knees.  The 
eyes  of  these  savages  looked  like  a  stormy  sea;  their  light-coloured  hair, 
falling  in  front  over  their  breasts,  and  dyed  with  a  red  liquid,  looked  like 
blood  and  fire.  Most  of  them  let  their  beards  grow  only  above  the  mouth, 
in  order  to  make  their  mouths  look  like  the  jaws  of  dogs  and  wolves.  Some 
held  in  the  right  hand  a  long  weapon  called  a  f ramie  and  in  their  left  a 
shield  which  they  turned  rapidly  like  a  wheel ;  others  instead  of  this  buckler 
held  a  sort  of  javelin,  called  an  angon,  made  of  two  bent  steel  prongs;  but 
they  all  had  in  their  belts  the  dreaded  francisque,  a  kind  of  two-edged  axe 
whose  handle  is  covered  by  hard  steel,  a  terrible  weapon  which  was  thrown 
by  the  Frank  as  he  shouted  his  battle  cry,  and  which  rarely  failed  to  strike 
the  mark  which  his  intrepid  eye  had  selected. 

These  savages,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  ancient  Germans,  were 
formed  in  a  triangle,  the  accustomed  order  of  battle.  This  formidable 
triangle  where  one  could  see  only  a  forest  of  framtes,  of  the  skins  of  beasts 
and  of  half  naked  bodies,  rushed  forward  impetuously,  but  regularly,  to 
pierce  the  Roman  line.  At  the  apex  of  the  triangle  were  stationed  braves 
who  had  long  and  bristling  spears  and  who  carried  on  their  arms  a  ring  of 
steel.  They  had  sworn  not  to  take  off  these  marks  of  servitude  until  they 
bad  sacrificed  a  Roman.  Each  chief  in  this  vast  body  was  surrounded  by 
the  warriors  of  his  family  in  order  that  he  might  stand  firm  in  the  shock 
of  battle,  and  either  wrest  victory  or  die  among  his  friends.  Each  tribe 
rallied  under  a  symbol;  the  noblest  being  distinguished  by  bees  or  three 
lance  heads.  The  old  king  of  the  Sicambres,  Pharamond,  led  the  entire 
army,  and  gave  a  part  of  the  command  to  his  grandson,  Merovde.  The 
Prankish  cavalry,  facing  the  Roman  cavalry,  covered  two  sides  of  their 
infantry.  From  their  casques,  shaped  like  open  jaws,  waved  two  vulture 
wings;  by  their  steel  corslets  and  white  bucklers,  one  might  have  taken 
them  for  phantoms  or  strange  figures  seen  amid  tempest  clouds.  Clodion, 
son  of  Pharamond,  father  of  Merovde,  shone  at  the  head  of  this  menacing 
cavalry. 

An  example  of  Chateaubriand's  verse  is  this 
FAIR  YOUNG  GIRL  AND  FLOWER 

(From  Longfellow's  "  Poetry  of  Europe  ") 

The  bier  descends,  the  spotless  roses  too, 
The  father's  tribute  in  his  saddest  hour; 

O  earth  that  bore  them  both,  thou  hast  thy  due, — 
The  fair  young  girl  and  flower. 


284  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Give  them  not  back  into  a  world  again, 

Where  mourning,  grief  and  agony  have  power, — 
Where  winds  destroy  and  suns  malignant  reign, — 
That  fair  young  girl  and  flower. 

Lightly  thou  sleepest,  young  Eliza,  now, 

Nor  fear'st  the  burning  heat,  nor  chilling  shower; 
They  both  have  perished  in  their  morning  glow, — 
The  fair  young  girl  and  flower. 

But  he,  thy  sire,  whose  furrowed  brow  is  pale, 

Bends,  lost  in  sorrow,  o'er  thy  funeral  bower; 
And  Time  the  old  oak's  roots  doth  now  assail, 
O  fair  young  girl  and  flower. 

Chateaubriand  allowed  himself  a  truly  lyric  expression  of 
his  own  emotions,  and  this  new  liberty  made  especial  appeal 
to  the  imaginations  of  the  "  temperamentals "  who  felt  that 
their  personality  was  lost  in  the  cold  generalizations  of  the 
classic  forms.  Chateaubriand's  "Rene"  was  the  delight  of 
every  would-be  confessor  of  his  own  thoughts  and  feelings, 
the  joy  and  the  excuse  of  the  individualistic  author. 

A  follower  of  Chateaubriand  in  religious  and  poetic  spirit 
was  ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE  (1790-1869),  orator,  prose 
writer  and  poet  of  distinction  in  all  forms.  Like  his  master, 
Lamartine  did  nothing  radical,  but  he  persevered  in  the  ex- 
pression of  simple,  human  subjects  in  language  both  direct 
and  beautiful,  and  his  work  was  another  step  toward  the 
upheaval  begun  by  ALFRED  DE  VIGNY  (1797-1863)  and 
ALFRED  DE  MUSSET  (1810-1857)  and  brought  to  a  head  by 
Victor  Hugo.  Lamartine's  most  famous  poem  is  "  The  Lake  " 
and  it  shows  the  inter-relation  between  the  moods  of  Nature 
and  of  Man  which  was  a  note  of  this  period  in  German  and 
English  as  well  as  in  French  literature. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH   285 

ODE  TO  THE  LAKE  OF  B— 

(From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature") 

Thus  sailing,  sailing  on  forevermore, 

Still  borne  along,  to  winds  and  waves  a  prey, 
Can  we  not,  on  life's  sea  without  a  shore, 
Cast  anchor  for  a  day? 

Dear  lake!  one  little  year  has  scarcely  flown 

And  near  thy  waves  she  longed  once  more  to  see, 
Behold  I  sit  alone  upon  this  stone, 
Where  once  she  sat  with  me. 

As  now,  thy  restless  waves  were  moaning  through 

The  creviced  rocks,  where  they  their  death  did  meet; 
And  flecks  of  foam  from  off  thy  billows  blew 
Over  my  dear  one's  feet. 

One  night  we  rowed  in  silence, — dost  recall 

That  night?    When  under  all  the  starry  sky 
Was  heard  alone  the  beat  of  oars  that  fall 
In  cadenced  harmony. 

When  suddenly,  upon  the  startled  ear 

Accents  unknown  to  earth  melodious  break; 
And  with  these  mournful  words,  a  voice  most  dear 
Charms  all  the  listening  lake: — 

"O  Time,  pause  in  thy  flight!  and  you,  propitious  hours, 

Pause  on  your  rapid  ways! 
Let  us  enjoy  the  springtime  of  our  powers, 
The  fairest  of  all  days! 

"So  many  wretched  souls  would  speed  your  flight, 

Urge  on  the  lingering  suns, 
Take  with  their  clays  the  canker  and  the  blight; 
Forget  the  happy  ones! 

"But  all  in  vain  I  try  to  stay  its  course: 

Time  slips  away  and  flies. 
I  say  to  ni^'ht,  'Pass  slowly!'  and  the  dawn 
Breaks  on  my  startled  eyes. 


286  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

"Let  us  love,  then,  and  love  forevermore! 

Enjoy  life  while  we  may; 
Man  has  no  port,  nor  has  time  any  shore; 
It  flees,  we  pass  away!" 

She  paused:  our  hearts  speak  through  our  ardent  eyes, 

Half-uttered  phrases  tremble  on  the  air; 
And  in  that  ecstasy  our  spirits  rise 
Up  to  a  world  more  fair. 

And  now  we  cease  to  speak;  in  sweet  eclipse 

Our  senses  lie,  weighed  down  with  all  love's  store; 
Our  hearts  are  beating,  and  our  clinging  lips 
Murmur,  "Forevermore ! " 

Great  Heaven!  can  then  these  moments  of  delight, 

When  love  all  happiness  upon  us  showers, 
Vanish  away  as  swiftly  in  their  flight 
As  our  unhappy  hours? 

Eternity,  the  Darkness,  and  the  Past, 

What  have  you  done  with  all  you've  made  your  prey? 
Answer  us!  will  you  render  back  at  last 
What  you  have  snatched  away? 

O  lake,  O  silent  rocks,  O  verdurous  green! — 

You  that  time  spares,  or  knows  how  to  renew, — 
Keep  of  this  night,  set  in  this  lovely  scene, 
At  least  a  memory  true! 

A  memory  in  thy  storms  and  thy  repose, 

O  lake!  and  where  thy  smiling  waters  lave 
The  sunny  shore,  or  where  the  dark  fir  grows, 
And  hangs  above  the  wave. 

In  the  soft  breeze  that  sighs  and  then  is  gone, 

In  thy  shores'  song,  by  thy  shores  echoed  still; 
In  the  pale  star  whose  silvery  radiance  shone 
Above  thy  wooded  hill! 

That  moaning  winds,  and  reeds  that  clashing  strike, 

And  perfumes  that  on  balmy  breezes  moved, 
With  all  we  hear,  we  see,  we  breathe,  alike 
May  say,  "They  loved!" 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH   287 

The  poetic  fire  which  kindled  Provence  in  the  days  of  the 
troubadours  has  never  entirely  died.  Now  and  again  it 
flames  up  in  beauty.  One  of  these  revivals  came  to  pass 
when  Romanticism  laid  its  torch  of  sympathy  to  the  southern 
spirit.  Of  the  poets  of  this  time  Frederic  Mistral  tells  with 
simple  charm  the  legend  of 

THE  SHEPHERD  AND  THE  HERMIT 
(Translated  by  Harriet  W.  Preston) 

Once  in  the  wild  woods  of  the  Luberon, 

A  shepherd  kept  his  flock.    His  days  were  long; 

But  when  at  last  the  same  were  wellnigh  spent, 

And  toward  the  grave  his  iron  frame  was  bent, 

He  sought  the  hermit  of  Saint  Ouqueri, 

To  make  his  last  confession  piously. 

Alone,  in  the  Vaumasco  valley  lost, 

His  foot  had  never  sacred  threshold  crost, 

Since  he  partook  his  first  communion. 

Even  his  prayers  were  from  his  memory  gone; 

But  now  he  rose  and  left  his  cottage  lowly, 

And  came  and  bowed  before  the  hermit  holy. 

"With  what  sin  chargest  thou  thyself,  my  brother?" 

The  solitary  said.    Replied  the  other, 

The  aged  man,  "Once,  long  ago,  I  slew 

A  little  bird  about  my  flock  that  flew, — 

A  cruel  stone  I  flung  its  life  to  end: 

It  was  a  wagtail,  and  the  shepherd's  friend." 

"Is  this  a  simple  soul,"  the  hermit  thought, 
"Or  is  it  an  impostor?"    And  he  sought 
Curiously  to  read  the  old  man's  face 
Until,  to  solve  the  riddle,  "Go,"  he  says, 
"And  hang  thy  shepherd's  cloak  yon  beam  upon, 
And  afterward  I  will  absolve  my  son." 

A  single  sunbeam  through  the  chapel  strayed; 
And  there  it  was  the  priest  the  suppliant  bade 
To  hang  his  cloak!    But  the  good  soul  arose, 
And  drew  it  off  with  mien  of  all  repose, 


288  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

And  threw  it  upward.    And  it  hung  in  sight 
Suspended  on  the  slender  shaft  of  light! 

Then  fell  the  hermit  prostrate  on  the  floor, 
"O  man  of  God!"  he  cried,  and  he  wept  sore, 
"Let  but  the  blessed  hand  these  tears  bedew, 
Fulfil  the  sacred  office  for  us  two! 
No  sins  of  thine  can  I  absolve,  'tis  clear: 
Thou  art  the  saint,  and  I  the  sinner  here!" 

One  of  the  qualities  inherent  in  individualism  is  a  certain 
naive  pessimism  that  is  almost  invariably  found  in  the  work 
of  writers  who  enjoy  analysis  of  their  own  emotions.  It  is 
naive  because  it  usually  arises  from  a  self-deception  absurd 
in  a  full-grown  man  or  woman.  The  melancholy  hero,  sensi- 
tive to  a  suffering  world  and  bearing  up  with  heroic  modesty 
under  a  realization  of  his  own — important — insignificance,  is 
a  figure  appealing  to  the  noble  misunderstood.  In  the  early 
eighteen  hundreds  such  a  figure  was  fashionable  in  fact  as  in 
fiction;  Byron  was  as  outspoken  in  his  griefs  as  Werther  in 
his  "Sorrows."  Lamartine's  love  songs  were  sad;  Alfred  de 
Vigny's  sky  was  hung  with  clouds  beneath  which  life  played 
its  role  in  gloom  and  pain.  He  was  conscious  of  being  a 
genius,  and  a  genius  must  move  solitary  among  men,  wrapped 
in  the  mystery  of  his  awe-inspiring  gift.  A  superb  facility 
of  expression  joined  to  imaginative  power  of  unusual  scope 
makes  noble  reading  of  all  de  Vigny's  works — and  he  wrote 
poems,  plays,  and  prose  fiction.  Yet  this  is  another  instance 
of  what  has  happened  so  often  in  French  literature — the  mar- 
ring of  a  piece  of  workmanship  approaching  perfection  in 
style  and  finish  by  the  injection  of  some  quality  whose  dis- 
turbing spirit  poisons  the  inner  springs.  Within  his  limita- 
tions, however,  de  Vigny  is  a  great  poet. 

The  little  "Song"  that  follows  is  slight  but  it  has  charm 
and  delicate  fancy  and  but  a  hint  of  sadness. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  IXVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH   289 

*  Come  on  the  bright  sea  lonely, 
O  maiden  fair  and  free, 

Come  homeless  and  friendless  and  only 
With  me,  with  me! 

My  boat  on  the  blue  wave  heaves: 
See!  what  a  fairy  thing, 

With  its  pennons,  mast  and  keel; 

Tis  but  a  little  shell- 
But  there  7  am  king! 

The  Earth  is  made  for  the  slave, 

O  maiden  free! 
But  for  man,  the  true  and  the  brave, 

The  boundless  sea; 
Waves  whisper  in  their  flow 

A  mystery 

Of  a  secret  spell  they  know, 
Of  Life  and  Love,  and  oh! 

Of  Liberty! 

No  reserves  mark  de  Mussel's  revelations.  His  loves  were 
many,  his  sufferings  great,  and  he  took  the  public  into  his 
confidence  so  openly  that  everybody  who  had  had  similar 
emotions  was  his  friend.  A  poem  in  something  less  than  his 
accustomed  vein  of  melancholy  is 

JUANA 

(Translated  by  Andrew  Lang) 
Again  I  see  you,  ah,  my  queen — 
Of  all  my  old  loves  that  have  been, 

The  first  love  and  the  tenderest; 
Do  you  remember  or  forget — 
Ah  me,  for  I  remember  yet — 

How  the  last  summer  days  were  blest? 

Ah,  lady,  when  we  think  of  this, — 
The  foolish  hours  of  youth  and  bliss, 

How  fleet,  how  sweet,  how  hard  to  hold! 
How  old  we  are,  ere  spring  be  green! 
You  touch  the  limit  of  eighteen, 

And  I  am  twenty  winters  old. 
•From  "Thaktta." 


ago  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

My  rose,  that  mid  the  red  roses 
Was  brightest,  ah,  how  pale  she  is! 

Yet  keeps  the  beauty  of  her  prime; 
Child,  never  Spanish  lady's  face 
Was  lovely  with  so  wild  a  grace; 

Remember  the  dead  summer-time. 

Think  of  our  loves,  our  feuds  of  old, 
And  how  you  gave  your  chain  of  gold 

To  me  for  a  peace-offering; 
And  how  all  night  I  lay  awake 
To  touch  and  kiss  it  for  your  sake, — 

To  touch  and  kiss  the  lifeless  thing. 

Lady,  beware,  for  all  we  say, 
This  Love  shall  live  another  day, 

Awakened  from  his  deathly  sleep: 
The  heart  that  once  has  been  your  shrine 
For  other  loves  is  too  divine; 

A  home,  my  dear,  too  wide  and  deep. 

What  did  I  say — why  do  I  dream? 
Wrhy  should  I  struggle  with  the  stream 

Whose  waves  return  not  any  day? 
Close  heart,  and  eyes,  and  arms  from  me; 
Farewell,  farewell!  so  must  it  be, 

So  runs,  so  runs,  the  world  away. 

The  season  bears  upon  its  wing 

The  swallows  and  the  songs  of  spring, 

And  days  that  were,  and  days  that  flit: 
The  loved  lost  hours  are  far  away; 
And  hope  and  fame  are  scattered  spray 
For  me,  that  gave  you  love  a  day, 

For  you  that  not  remember  it. 

By  contrast,  de  Musset's  lighter  mood  is  full  of  wit  and 
grace,  as  in  his  comedies,  and  he  is  capable  of  sustained 
dramatic  power,  shown  at  its  best  in  "Lorenzaccio,"  a  his- 
torical play.  A  number  of  comediettas  developed  proverbs 
entertainingly.  One  of  these  is  called 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  291 
*A  DOOR  MUST  BE  EITHER  OPEN  OR  SHUT 
CHARACTERS — The  Count — Tlie  Marquise 
SCENE — Paris 

(The  Marquise  is  seated  on  a  sofa  near  the  fire  embroidering.   Enter  the  Count; 
he  bows.) 

Count.  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  get  over  my  stupidity,  but  my  mem- 
ory is  shocking.  I  can't  possibly  succeed  in  remembering  your  day;  and 
whenever  I  want  to  see  you,  it  is  sure  to  be  a  Tuesday. 

Mar.    Have  you  anything  to  say  to  me? 

Count.  No;  but  suppose  I  had,  I  could  not  say  it.  It  is  only  a  chance 
that  you  are  by  yourself,  and  within  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  you  are 
sure  to  have  a  mob  of  intimate  friends  in  here. 

Mar.  It  is  true  that  to-day  is  my  day,  and  I  don't  quite  know  why  I 
have  one.  Nowadays  when  you  are  at  home,  you  are  at  home  to  all  Paris. 
It  is  the  only  way  to  see  as  little  as  possible  of  one's  friends,  and  when  you 
say, "  I  am  at  home  on  Tuesdays,"  it  is  clearly  just  as  if  you  said,  "  Leave 
me  in  peace  on  the  other  days — 

Count.  That  makes  it  all  the  worse  for  me  to  come  to-day,  since  you 
allow  me  to  see  you  in  the  week — 

Mar.  Make  up  your  mind  and  sit  down  there.  If  you  are  in  a  good 
temper,  you  may  talk;  if  not,  warm  yourself.  But  what's  the  matter  with 
you?  You  seem 

Count.    What? 

Mar.    I  would  not  say  the  word  for  the  world. 

Count.  Well,  indeed,  then  I  will  admit  it.  Before  I  came  in  I  was  a 
little— 

Mar.    What?    It  is  my  turn  now  to  ask. 

Count.    Will  you  be  angry  if  I  tell  you? 

Mar.  There  is  a  ball  this  evening,  where  I  want  to  look  my  best,  so  I 
shall  not  lose  my  temper  all  day. 

Count.  Well,  I  was  a  little  bored.  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with 
me:  it's  a  fashionable  affliction  like  your  days.  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
I  am  as  stupid  as  a  magazine  article. 

Mar.  I  can  say  the  same  for  myself.  I  am  bored  to  extinction.  It  is 
the  weather,  no  doubt. 

Count.    The  fact  is,  cold  is  abominable. 

•  Abridged  from  translation  by  S.  L.  Gwynn.  Courtesy  of  The  Walter  Scott  Publish- 
ing Company. 


292  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Mar.  Perhaps  it  is  that  we  are  growing  old.  I  am  beginning  to  be 
thirty,  and  I  am  losing  my  talent  for  existence. 

Count.  It  is  a  talent  I  never  had,  and  what  scares  me  is  that  I  am  pick- 
ing it  up.  As  one  ages,  one  turns  fogey  or  fool,  and  I  am  desperately  afraid 
of  dying  a  wiseacre. 

Mar.    Ring  for  them  to  put  a  log  on  the  fire.    Your  idea  freezes  me. 
(A  ring  heard  outside.) 

Count.  It  is  not  worth  while.  There  is  a  ring  at  the  door,  and  your 
procession  is  arriving. 

Mar.  Let  us  see  who  will  carry  the  flag;  and,  above  all,  do  your  best  to 
stay. 

Count.  No;  decidedly  I  am  off.  (He  rises,  bows,  and  opens  the  door.) 
Adieu,  Madame,  till  Thursday  evening. 

Mar.    Why  Thursday? 

Count.  Is  it  not  your  day  at  the  opera?  I  will  go  and  pay  you  a  little 
visit. 

Mar.  I  don't  want  you;  you  are  too  cross.  Besides,  I  am  taking  M. 
Camus. 

Count.    M.  Camus,  your  country  neighbour? 

Mar.  Yes.  He  sold  me  apples  and  hay  with  great  gallantry,  and  I 
want  to  return  his  civility. 

Count.  Now,  that  is  just  your  way.  The  most  wearisome  creature! 
He  should  be  fed  on  his  own  wares.  And  by  the  way,  do  you  know  what 
the  world  says? 

Mar.  No.  But  no  one  is  coming.  Do  shut  that  door.  There's  a  ter- 
rible draught. 

Count.  People  are  saying  that  you  are  thinking  of  marrying  again, 
and  that  M.  Camus  is  a  millionaire,  and  that  he  comes  very  often  to  your 
house. 

Mar.    Really!    Is  that  all? 

Count.     I  tell  it  you  because  people  are  talking  of  it. 

Mar.     Do  I  repeat  all  that  the  world  says  of  you? 

Count.  Of  me,  Madame?  What  do  they  say,  if  you  please,  that  will 
not  bear  repeating?  (sitting  down  again).  Tell  me,  I  implore  you,  Mar- 
quise. You  are  the  person  in  all  the  world  whose  opinion  I  value  most. 

Mar.    One  of  the  persons,  you  mean. 

Count.  No,  Madame,  I  say  the  person — she  whose  esteem,  whose 
opinion — 

Mar.     Good  heavens,  you  are  going  to  turn  a  phrase. 

Count.  Not  at  all.  If  you  see  nothing,  evidently  it  is  because  you  will 
not  see. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH   295 

Mar.    See  what? 

Count.    You  can't  but  understand — 

Mar.  I  only  understand  what  people  tell  me,  and  even  then  I  am  hard 
of  hearing. 

Count.  You  laugh  at  everything;  but,  candidly,  could  it  be  possible, 
that  after  seeing  you  for  a  whole  year,  with  your  wit,  your  beauty,  your 
grace — 

Mar.  But,  good  heavens!  this  is  worse  than  a  phrase;  it  is  a  declaration. 
Warn  me  at  least.  Is  it  a  declaration  or  a  New  Year's  compliment? 

Count.    And  suppose  it  were  a  declaration? 

Mar.  Oh,  I  don't  want  it  this  morning.  I  told  you  I  was  going  to  a 
ball;  I  run  the  risk  of  hearing  some  this  evening,  and  my  health  won't 
stand  that  sort  of  thing  twice  a  day. 

Count.  Truly  you  are  discouraging,  and  I  shall  be  heartily  delighted 
when  your  turn  comes  to  be  caught. 

Mar.  I  shall  be  delighted  myself.  I  swear  to  you,  there  are  instants 
when  I  would  give  large  sums  to  have  even  a  little  vexation. 

Count.     Laugh  away,  laugh  away;  your  turn  will  come. 

Mar.    Very  possibly:  we  are  all  mortal. 

Count.    So  you  don't  choose  to  be  made  love  to? 

Mar.  No.  I  am  very  good-natured;  but  as  for  love-making,  it  is  quite 
too  stupid.  Come  now,  you  who  have  common  sense,  tell  me  what  does 
this  mean:  making  love  to  a  woman? 

Count.  It  means  that  the  woman  in  question  pleases  you,  and  that  you 
like  to  tell  her  so. 

Mar.  Very  well;  but  what  about  the  woman?  Does  it  please  her  to 
please  you?  For  instance,  you  think  me  pretty,  let  us  suppose,  and  it 
amuses  you  to  let  me  know  it.  Is  that  a  reason  for  me  to  love  you?  What 
does  a  man  gain  by  these  compliments?  How  can  a  man  of  brains  take 
any  pleasure  in  these  sillinesses?  It  puts  me  into  a  passion  when  I  think 
of  it. 

Count.     Still  there  is  nothing  to  get  angry  about. 

Mar.  On  my  word,  there  is.  You  must  credit  a  woman  with  a  very 
empty  head  and  a  great  stock  of  stupidity  to  imagine  that  you  can  mix  a 
tharm  for  her  out  of  such  ingredients.  Really,  it  seems  to  me  that  if  I 
were  a  man,  and  saw  a  pretty  woman,  I  should  say  to  myself:  "Here  is  a 
poor  creature  who  is  sure  to  be  stifled  with  compliments,"  and  if  I  wanted 
to  find  favour,  I  would  do  her  the  honour  to  talk  to  her  of  something  else 
than  her  unhappy  face.  But  no,  it  is  always  "  You  are  pretty,"  and  then 
"  You  are  pretty,"  and  then  "Pretty"  again.  Why,  good  heavens!  we  know 
it  well  enough! 


294  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Count.  Well,  Madame,  you  are  charming,  take  it  as  you  will. — There's 
another  ring.  Good-bye;  I  am  off. 

Mar.  Wait  now;  I  wanted  to  tell  you — I  forget  what  it  was.  Ah!  do 
you  pass  Frossin's  by  any  chance  in  your  wanderings? 

Count.    It  will  not  be  by  chance,  Madame,  if  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you. 

Mar.  Another  compliment.  Heavens,  how  you  bore  me!  It  is  a  ring 
I  have  broken.  Of  course  I  could  simply  send  it,  but  I  must  explain  to  you. 
(Taking  the  ring  off  her  finger.)  There,  do  you  see,  it  is  the  setting.  (Bell 
heard.  Count  looks  out  of  window).  Do  shut  that  door;  you  are  freezing  me. 

Count.  I'm  just  going.  But  you  promise  to  repeat  what  was  said  to  you 
about  me,  don't  you,  Marquise? 

Mar.     Come  to  the  ball  this  evening,  and  we  will  have  a  talk. 

Count.  Parbleu!  Yes;  talk  in  a  ball-room!  A  nice  spot  for  conversa- 
tion, with  trombone  accompaniment  and  a  clatter  of  glasses  of  eau  sucree. 
I  put  it  to  you,  is  that  the  place ? 

Mar.  Will  you  go  or  stay?  I  tell  you  again,  you  are  giving  me  a  cold. 
Since  no  one  is  coming,  what  drives  you  away? 

Count  (shutting  the  door  and  sitting  down  again).  The  fact  is,  do  what  I 
can,  I  feel  in  such  bad  humour  that  I  am  really  afraid  of  wearing  out  your 
patience.  Decidedly,  I  must  leave  off  coming  to  your  house — 

Mar.    That  is  polite.    And  what  has  put  that  into  your  head? 

Count.  I  don't  know,  but  I  bore  you.  You  told  me  so  yourself  a  moment 
ago,  and  I  am  quite  conscious  of  it. 

Mar.  If  I  told  you  you  were  boring  me  this  morning,  that  was  because 
it  is  unusual.  Seriously,  you  would  pain  me.  I  take  great  pleasure  in 
seeing  you 

Count.    You?    Not  a  bit. 

Mar.    What  a  tragic  tone !    I  forbade  you  to  love  me? 

Count.     Certainly;  or  to  speak  to  you  of  it,  at  least. 

Mar.    Well,  I  give  you  leave.    Let  us  hear  your  eloquence. 

Count.  If  you  meant  that (Bell  heard).  That  jingle  again.  Good- 
bye, then,  Marquise.  At  all  events,  I  won't  let  you  off  so.  (He  opens  the 
door.) 

Mar.    Till  this  evening,  is  it  not?    But  what  is  that  noise  I  hear? 

Count  (looking  out  of  the  window).  It  is  a  change  in  the  weather.  It  is 
raining  and  hailing  as  hard  as  you  please. 

Mar.  It  is  frightful.  Do  shut  the  door.  You  can't  go  out  in  this 
weather. 

Count  (shutting  the  door).  You  may  safely  reckon,  I  can  tell  you,  that 
with  this  hail  you  won't  have  any  one  here.  There  is  one  of  your  days 
wasted 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  295 

Mar.    Not  at  all,  since  you  came.   Do  put  down  your  hat.   It  fidgets  me. 

Count.  A  compliment,  Madame.  Take  care.  You,  who  profess  to 
hate  them,  might  have  yours  taken  for  truth. 

Mar.  But  I  tell  you  so,  and  it  is  quite  true.  You  give  me  great  pleasure 
by  coming  to  see  me. 

Count  (sitting  down  again  mar  tlte  Marquise).    Then  let  me  love  you. 

Mar.  But  I  tell  you  also,  I  am  quite  willing.  It  doesn't  annoy  me  the 
least  bit  in  the  world. 

Count.  Then  let  me  speak  of  it  to  you.  It  seems  to  me  that  one  has 
certainly  a  right  without  offending  a  person  one  respects 

Mar.  To  wait  till  the  rain  is  over,  you  mean.  You  came  in  here  a 
moment  ago  without  knowing  why.  If  you  had  found  three  people  here, 
any  three,  no  matter  who,  you  would  be  there  by  the  corner  of  the  fire, 
at  the  present  moment,  talking  literature  or  railroads,  after  which  you  would 
go  and  dine.  So  it  is  because  I  was  alone  that  you  think  yourself  bound 
all  on  a  sudden,  yes,  bound  in  honour  to  make  love  to  me.  Do  you  know 
what  men  look  like  under  those  circumstances?  Like  those  poor  hissed 
authors  who  have  always  a  manuscript  in  their  pockets,  some  unpublished 
and  unplayable  tragedy,  and  pull  out  this  to  batter  your  ears  with  it  as 
soon  as  you  are  left  alone  with  them  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Count.  So  you  tell  me  that  I  don't  displease  you.  I  reply  that  I  love 
you,  and  there  is  an  end  of  it  to  your  mind. 

Mar.    You  love  me  no  more  than  the  Grand  Turk. 

Count.  Oh,  come  now,  that  is  too  much.  Listen  to  me  for  a  single 
moment,  and  if  you  don't  believe  me  sincere 

Mar.  No,  no,  and  no  again !  Good  heavens!  do  you  think  I  don't  know 
what  you  could  tell  me? 

Count.    You  have  cloyed  your  palate,  Marquise.    You  are  jaded — 

Mar.  Insults?  I  prefer  them;  they  are  less  insipid  than  your  sugar- 
plums. 

Count.    Yes,  the  plain  truth  is  you  are  jaded. 

Mar.    You  think  so.    Well!  not  a  bit  of  it! 

Count.    Jaded  as  an  old  Englishwoman  with  fourteen  children. 

Mar.  As  the  feather  that  dances  on  my  hat!  So  you  imagine  that  it 
is  a  deep  science  to  know  you  all  by  heart.  Why,  there  is  no  study  needed 
to  learn  that  lesson;  simply  you  have  to  be  left  to  yourselves.  You  have 
only  one  tune  among  you,  as  they  say,  so  that  the  mere  repetition  of  the 
same  words,  the  mere  spectacle  of  all  these  different  faces  which  may  in 
themselves  be  more  or  less  passable,  but  at  these  fatal  moments  all  assume 
the  same  humbly  victorious  expression,  is  enough  to  work  our  salvation 
by  laughter,  or  at  least  by  sheer  weariness.  Do  you  call  this  being  jaded? 


296  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Count.  Horribly  so,  if  what  you  say  is  true;  and  it  seems  to  me  so  far 
from  natural  that  the  doubt  might  be  allowed. 

Mar.    I  begged  you  to  put  a  log  on  the  fire. 

Count  (putting  on  the  log).  You  discourage  a  poor  devil  by  telling  him, 
"  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  tell  me."  But  has  he  not  the  right  to  reply, 
"  Yes,  madame,  you  know  perhaps;  and  I  too  know  what  men  say  when 
they  love;  but  when  I  speak  to  you  I  forget  it." 

Mar.  Come,  at  least,  this  is  better;  you  are  talking  capitally;  it  is  the 
next  thing  to  a  book. 

Count.  Yes,  I  am  talking;  and  I  am  assuring  you  that  if  you  are  such 
as  it  is  your  pleasure  to  seem,  I  pity  you  most  sincerely. 

Mar.    Don't  let  me  check  you;  make  yourself  at  home. 

Count.  There  is  nothing  in  that  to  wound  you.  If  you  have  the  right  to 
attack  us,  may  we  not  reasonably  defend  ourselves?  When  you  compare 
us  to  hissed  authors,  what  is  the  stone  you  think  you  are  throwing?  Why, 
heaven  help  us!  if  love  is  a  comedy 

Mar.    The  fire  is  burning  badly;  that  log  is  crooked. 

Count  (arranging  the  fire).  If  love  is  a  comedy,  that  world-old  comedy, 
hissed  or  not,  is  still,  after  all  is  said  and  done,  the  least  poor  performance 
that  has  been  invented.  And  I  am  wrong  to  call  it  old.  Is  that  old  which 
is  immortal? 

Mar.    Monsieur,  this  is  poetry. 

Count.  No,  Madame;  but  these  compliments,  declarations,  and  all  the 
doting  nonsense  are  excellent  old  things,  sometimes  ridiculous,  but  all  of 
them  accompaniments  to  another  thing  which  is  always  young. 

Mar.  You  are  getting  confused.  What  is  it  that  is  always  old,  and  what 
is  it  that  is  always  young? 

Count.    Love. 

Mar.    Monsieur,  this  is  eloquence. 

Count.  No,  Madame.  I  mean  this:  That  love  is  eternally  young,  and 
that  the  ways  of  expressing  it  are,  and  will  remain,  eternally  old.  The 
king  never  dies.  Love  is  dead,  long  live  Love. 

Mar.    Love? 

Count.    Love.    And  even  suppose  one  were  merely  fancying — 

Mar.    Give  me  the  fire-screen  there. 

Count.    This  one? 

Mar.    No;  the  brocaded  one.    Your  fire  is  putting  out  my  eyes  now. 

Count  (handing  the  screen  to  the  Marquise).  Even  suppose  it  were  merely 
fancy  that  one  is  in  love,  is  not  that  a  charming  thing? 

Mar.     But  I  tell  you  it  is  always  the  same  thing. 

Count.     And  always  new,  as  the  song  says.    Why,  what  would  you  have 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH   297 

us  invent?  Apparently,  you  must  be  loved  in  Hebrew!  If  you  are  like 
your  grandmother,  are  you  the  less  pretty  for  that? 

Mar.  That's  right,  there  is  the  chorus;  pretty.  Give  me  the  cushion 
that  is  by  you. 

Count  (taking  the  cushion  and  holding  it  in  his  hand).  No,  Madame,  I 
cannot  say  how  painful  to  me  is  the  sight  of  this  fashionable  indifference. 

Mar.  What  is  that  cushion  doing  in  your  hand?  I  asked  you  for  it 
to  put  under  my  feet. 

Count.  Well  then,  there  it  is,  and  there  am  I,  too,  and  whether  you  will 
or  no,  I  will  make  you  a  declaration,  as  old  as  the  streets,  and  as  stupid 
as  a  goose,  for  I  am  furious  with  you. 

(He  puts  the  cushion  on  the  ground  before  the  Marquise,  and  kneels  down 
on  it.) 

Mar.  Will  you  do  me  the  favour  to  remove  yourself  from  there,  if  you 
please? 

Count.    No;  you  must  listen  to  me  first 

Mar.    You  won't  get  up? 

Count.  No,  no,  and  no  again,  as  you  said  a  moment  ago,  unless  you  con- 
sent to  hear  me. 

Mir.    I  have  the  honour  to  wish  you  a  good  morning.    (Rising.) 

Count  (still  on  his  knees).  Marquise,  in  heaven's  name,  this  is  too  cruel. 
You  will  madden  me.  You  drive  me  to  despair. 

Mar.    You  will  recover  at  the  Caf6  de  Paris. 

Count  (in  the  same  position).  No,  upon  my  honour.  I  speak  from  my 
heart.  I  will  admit  as  much  as  you  please  that  I  came  in  here  without  any 
purpose.  I  only  meant  to  pay  you  a  passing  visit;  witness  this  door,  that 
I  opened  three  times  to  go.  The  conversation  we  have  just  had,  your 
raillery,  your  very  coldness,  drew  me  on  further  perhaps  than  was  right; 
but  it  is  not  to-day  only,  it  is  since  the  first  day  I  saw  you  that  I  have  loved 
you,  that  I  have  adored  you.  I  have  dreamed 

Mar.    Adieu ! 

(Exit  the  Marquise,  leaving  the  door  open.) 

Count  (left  alone,  remains  a  moment  longer  on  his  knees,  then  rises  and  says:) 
It  is  a  positive  fact  that  that  door  is  icy.  (He  is  going  out  and  sees  the  Mar- 
quise.) 

Count.    Ah,  Marquise,  you  are  laughing  at  me. 

Mar.  (leaning  against  the  half-open  door).    So  you  have  found  your  feet. 

Count.    Yes;  and  I  am  going,  never  to  see  you  again. 

Mar.     Come  to  the  ball  this  evening.    I  am  keeping  a  valsc  for  you. 

Count.     I  will  never,  never  see  you  again.    I  am  in  despair;  I  am  lost. 

Alar.     What  is  the  matter  with  you? 


298  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Count.  I  am  lost.  I  love  you  like  a  child.  I  swear  to  you,  on  all  that  is 
most  sacred  in  the  world — 

Mar.    Adieu!    (She  is  going  out.) 

Count.  It  is  for  me  to  leave,  Madame.  Stay,  I  beg  of  you.  I  feel  how 
much  I  have  to  suffer — 

Mar.  (in  a  serious  tone).  Let  us  make  an  end  now,  Monsieur.  So  you 
want  to  marry  me? 

Count.  Why,  undoubtedly!  I  am  dying  to.  I  never  dared  to  tell  you, 
but  for  this  last  year  I  have  been  thinking  of  nothing  else. 

Mar.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  two  proverbs.  The  first  is,  Never  play  at 
cross  purposes.  Consequently,  we  will  talk  it  over. 

Count.    Then  what  I  have  dared  to  tell  you  does  not  displease  you? 

Mar.  Oh  no!  Here  is  my  second  proverb:  A  door  must  be  either  open 
or  shut.  Now  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour  here  has  this  door,  thanks  to 
you,  been  neither  one  nor  the  other,  and  the  room  is  perfectly  icy.  Con- 
sequence again— you  are  going  to  give  me  your  arm  to  take  me  to  dine  at 
my  mother's.  After  that  you  will  go  to  Frossin's. 

Count.    Frossin's,  Madame?    For  what  reason? 

Mar.    My  ring. 

Count.  Ah,  that  is  true!  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  Well  then,  your 
ring,  Marquise. 

Mar.  Marquise  you  say.  Well  then,  on  my  ring  there  happens  to  be 
in  the  setting  a  little  Marquise's  coronet,  and  as  that  may  be  used  for  a  seal, 
tell  me,  Count,  what  do  you  think?  Perhaps  the  strawberry  leaves  will 
have  to  be  taken  off.  There,  I  am  going  to  put  on  my  bonnet. 

Count.    You  overwhelm  me  with  joy.    How  am  I  to  express ? 

Mar.  But  do  shut  that  unhappy  door.  This  room  will  never  be  fit  to 
live  in  again. 

While  de  Vigny  and  de  Musset  were  enthusiastically 
applying  the  methods  of  the  new  Romanticism  their  most 
powerful  exponent  was  a  young  man,  VICTOR  MARIE  HUGO 
(1802-1885),  whose  first  publication,  a  volume  of  poems, 
showed  him  to  be  the  possessor  of  a  singing  style  and  of  a 
rich  and  novel  vocabulary.  Born  at  a  time  when  political 
disturbance  had  been  going  on  so  long  that  it  was  becoming 
a  tradition,  Hugo  knew  the  admiration  and  the  repulsion 
earned  by  Napoleon  and  his  methods,  and  the  excitements  of 
the  later  disturbances  which  resulted  in  the  "Revolution" 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  299 

of  1830.  His  naturally  dramatic  nature  was  stirred  to  ex- 
pression by  the  turmoil  about  him,  and  he  saw  in  the  political 
flux  but  another  incentive  to  work  for  a  change  that  would 
prove  the  final  overthrow  of  classicism.  His  first  play, 
"Cromwell,"  was  a  drama  for  the  library  rather  than  the 
stage.  Its  preface,  however,  threw  down  the  gauntlet  to  the 
supporters  of  the  school  of  Corneille,  while,  incidentally,  it 
placed  its  author  among  the  critics  in  whom  this  century  is 
rich. 

Hugo's  creed  was  a  veritable  charter  of  liberties  and  declar- 
ation of  independence.  To  begin  with  he  defied  the  "  unities  " 
of  time  and  place,  acknowledging  only  the  necessity  for  unity 
of  action.  Local  color,  he  declared,  was  a  valuable  enrich- 
ment that  was  not  necessarily  at  war  with  the  universality 
which  the  classicists  claimed  that  it  limited.  The  only  lim- 
itations that  he  admitted  were  those  imposed  by  nature  and 
by  truth,  and  such  breadth  of  choice  permits  the  drama  to 
reflect  everything  that  exists,  even  the  grotesque.  This 
liberty  of  subject  was  matched  by  a  freedom  of  style  that 
adopted  the  direct  and  enlarged  vocabulary  of  the  new  school 
in  a  swinging  verse  that  allowed  many  encroachments  upon 
the  old  ideas. 

It  was  at  the  first  performance  of  "Hernani,"  on  the  25th 
of  February,  1830,  that  the  adherents  of  the  Classicists  and 
the  Romanticists  met  on  a  field  that  was  literally  a  field  of 
battle.  Hugo's  friends  gathered  to  force  a  victory.  The 
trouble  burst  promptly  when  the  heretical  placing  of  a  noun 
and  its  attendant  adjective  on  separate  lines — the  end  of  the 
first  and  the  beginning  of  the  second — fell  on  the  ears  of  the 
conservatives.  Uproar  and  derision  increased  and  blows 
were  struck.  Theophile  Gautier,  wearing  a  red  waistcoat 
horrifying  to  the  eyes  of  the  decorous,  led  the  Romanticists 
in  what  has  been  called  the  "Battle  of  Hernani."  It  was  at 
least  a  drawn  battle,  for  the  performance  was  allowed  a 


300  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

repetition,  and  repetition  at  last  won  approval.    Following 
is  an  outline  of  this  stirring  drama. 

Dona  Sol  is  betrothed  to  her  guardian  and  uncle,  Don  Ruy  Gomez, 
but  loves  the  bandit,  Hernani,  a  noble  in  disfavor  at  court,  and  is  beloved 
by  the  King,  Don  Carlos.  Don  Carlos  forces  an  entrance  to  Dona  Sol's 
apartment,  compels  the  duenna  to  conceal  him  and  listens  to  the  con- 
versation between  Dona  Sol  and  Hernani  in  which  the  girl  vows  that 
she  will  leave  all  that  the  Duke,  her  uncle,  might  give  her,  and  will  flee 
with  her  beloved. 

DONA  SOL 
*  I'll  follow  you. 

HERNANI 

The  Duke  is  wealthy,  great 
And  prosperous,  without  a  stain  upon 
His  ancient  name.    He  offers  you  his  hand, 
And  can  give  all  things — treasures,  dignities, 

And  pleasure 

DONA  SOL 

We'll  set  out  to-morrow.    Oh! 
Hernani,  censure  not  th'  audacity 
Of  this  decision.    Are  you  angel  mine 
Or  demon?    Only  one  thing  do  I  know, 
That  I'm  your  slave.    Now,  listen:  wheresoe'er 
You  go,  I  go — pause  you  or  move  I'm  yours. 
Why  act  I  thus?    Ah!  that  I  cannot  tell; 
Only  I  want  to  see  you  evermore. 
When  sound  of  your  receding  footstep  dies 
I  feel  my  heart  stops  beating;  without  you 
Myself  seems  absent,  but  when  I  detect 
Again  the  step  I  love,  my  soul  comes  back, 
I  breathe — I  live  once  more. 

HERNANI  (embracing  her) 
Oh!  angel  mine! 

DONA  SOL 

At  midnight,  then,  to-morrow,  clap  your  hands 
Three  times  beneath  my  window,  bringing  there 
Your  escort.    Go !    I  shall  be  strong  and  brave. 

Bursting  from  his  concealment  with  comic  expressions  of  discomfort, 
Don  Carlos  is  about  to  fight  with  Hernani  when  they  are  interrupted  by 

*  Translation  of  Frederick  L.  Slons  and  Mrs.  Newton  Crossland.  Courtesy  of  The 
Macmillan  Company. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  301 

Don  Ruy  Gomez,  who  is  by  no  means  pleased  at  finding  two  men  with 
his  niece.  The  King,  however,  silences  his  reproaches  by  disclosing  his 
identity  and  declaring  that  he  had  come  to  consult  the  old  man  on  ques- 
tions connected  with  the  death  of  the  Emperor,  his  grandfather,  of  whom 
he  had  just  heard.  Dona  Sol  renews  her  promise  to  elope  with  Hernani, 
who  is  protected  from  the  Duke's  inquiries  by  Don  Carlos's  assertion 
that  he  is  one  of  his  followers;  on  which  Hernani,  left  alone,  comments. 

HERNANI 

One  of  thy  followers!    I  am,  oh  King! 

Well  said.    For  night  and  day  and  step  by  step 

I  follow  thee,  with  eye  upon  thy  path 

And  dagger  in  my  hand.    My  race  in  me 

Pursues  thy  race  in  thce.    And  now  behold 

Thou  art  my  rival!    For  an  instant  I 

'Twixt  love  and  hate  was  balanced  in  the  scale. 

Not  large  enough  my  heart  for  her  and  thee; 

In  loving  her  oblivious  I  became 

Of  all  my  hate  of  thee.    But  since  'tis  thou 

That  comes  to  will  I  should  remember  it, 

I  recollect.    My  love  it  is  that  tilts 

Th'  uncertain  balance,  while  it  falls  entire 

Upon  the  side  of  hate.    Thy  follower! 

'Tis  thou  hast  said  it.    Never  courtier  yet 

Of  thy  accursed  court,  or  noble,  fain 

To  kiss  thy  shadow — not  a  seneschal 

With  human  heart  abjured  in  serving  thee; 

No  dog  within  the  palace,  trained  the  King 

To  follow,  will  thy  steps  more  closely  haunt 

And  certainly  than  I.    What  they  would  have, 

These  famed  grandees,  is  hollow  title,  or 

Some  toy  that  shines — some  golden  sheep  to  hang 

About  the  neck.    Not  such  a  fool  am  I. 

What  I  would  have  is  not  some  favour  vain, 

But  'tis  thy  blood,  won  by  my  conquering  steel — 

Thy  soul  from  out  thy  body  forced — with  all 

That  at  the  bottom  of  thy  heart  was  reached 

After  deep  delving.    Go — you  are  in  front — 

I  follow  thee.    My  watchful  vengeance  walks 

With  me,  and  whispers  in  mine  ear.    Go  where 

Thou  wilt  I'm  there  to  listen  and  to  spy, 

And  noiselessly  my  step  will  press  on  thine. 

No  day,  should'st  thou  but  turn  thy  head,  oh  King, 

But  thou  wilt  find  me,  motionless  and  grave, 

At  festivals;  at  night,  should'st  thou  look  back, 

Still  wilt  thou  see  my  flaming  eyes  behind. 

Like  the  first  act  the  second  begins  in  comedy  when  the  King  with 
some  of  his  gentlemen  goes  to  the  meeting-place  of  Hernani  and  Dona 


302  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Sol  with  the  purpose  of  interfering  with  the  elopement.  He  gives  the 
signal  agreed  upon  and  Dona  Sol  comes  forth,  but  she  repulses  him  and 
Hernani  rescues  her,  though  he  generously  refuses  to  slay  Don  Carlos. 
Carlos  requites  him  shabbily  by  setting  the  guards  upon  him.  Hernani 
refuses  to  take  Dona  Sol  with  him  to  almost  certain  death. 

The  third  act  shows  Don  Ruy  Gomez  and  Dona  Sol  an  hour  before 
their  marriage.  Hernani  is  introduced,  disguised  as  a  pilgrim.  In  a 
fury  at  Dona  Sol's  supposed  desertion  Hernani  declares  himself  and 
urges  some  one  of  his  hearers  to  take  him  and  thereby  earn  the  reward 
offered  for  his  capture.  Don  Ruy  Gomez  says  that  he  will  protect  him, 
his  guest,  even  with  his  life.  Hernani,  left  alone  with  the  girl,  reproaches 
her  bitterly. 

HERNANI  looks  at  the  nuptial  jewel-case  with  a  cold  and  apparently  indif- 
ferent gaze;  then  he  tosses  back  his  head,  and  his  eyes  light  up. 

HERNANI 

Accept  my  'gratulations!    Words  tell  not 
How  I'm  enchanted  by  these  ornaments. 

[He  approaches  the  casket. 
This  ring  is  in  fine  taste, — the  coronet 
I  like, — the  necklace  shows  surpassing  skill. 
The  bracelet's  rare — but,  oh,  a  hundred  times 
Less  so  than  she,  who  'neath  a  forehead  pure 
Conceals  a  faithless  heart.  [Examining  the  casket  again. 

What  for  all  this 

Have  you  now  given?    Of  your  love  some  share? 
But  that  for  nothing  goes!    Great  God!  to  thus 
Deceive,  and  still  to  live  and  have  no  shame! 

[Looking  at  the  jewels. 

But  after  all,  perchance,  this  pearl  is  false, 
And  copper  stands  for  gold,  and  glass  and  lead 
Make  out  sham  diamonds — pretended  gems! 
Are  these  false  sapphires  and  false  jewels  all? 
If  so,  thy  heart  is  like  them,  Duchess  false, 
Thyself  but  only  gilded.  [He  returns  to  the  casket. 

Yet  no,  no! 

They  all  are  real,  beautiful,  and  good, 
He  dares  not  cheat,  who  stands  so  near  the  tomb, 
Nothing  is  wanting. 

[He  takes  up  one  thing  after  another. 
Necklaces  are  here, 

And  brilliant  earrings,  and  the  Duchess'  crown 
And  golden  ring.    Oh  marvel!    Many  thanks 
For  love  so  certain,  faithful  and  profound. 
The  precious  box! 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  303 

DONA  SOL  (She  goes  to  the  casket,  feels  in  it,  and  draws  forth  a  dagger) 

You  have  not  reached  its  depths. 
This  is  the  dagger  which,  by  kindly  aid 
Of  patron  saint,  I  snatched  from  Charles  the  King 
When  he  made  offer  to  me  of  a  throne, 
Which  I  refused  for  you,  who  now  insult  me. 

HERNANI  (falling  at  her  feet) 

Oh,  let  me  on  my  knees  arrest  those  tears, 
The  tears  that  beautify  thy  sorrowing  eyes. 
Then  after  thou  canst  freely  take  my  life. 

DONA  SOL 

I  pardon  you,  Hernani.    In  my  heart 
There  is  but  love  for  you. 

HERNANI 

And  she  forgives — 
And  loves  me  still! 

Hernani  still  refuses  to  let  Dona  Sol  share  his  fate,  but  yields  at  last. 

DONA  SOL  (throwing  herself  on  his  neck) 

You  are  my  lion,  generous  and  superb! 
I  love  you. 

HERNANI 

Ah,  this  love  would  be  a  good 
Supreme,  if  we  could  die  of  too  much  love! 

DONA  SOL 

Thou  art  my  lord !    I  love  thee  and  belong 
To  thee! 

HERNANI  (letting  his  head  fall  on  her  shoulder) 

How  sweet  would  be  a  poignard  stroke 
From  thee! 

DONA  SOL  (entreatingly) 

Fear  you  not  God  will  punish  you 
For  words  like  these? 

HERNANI  (still  leaning  on  her  shoulder) 
Well,  then,  let  Him  unite  us! 

I  have  resisted;  thou  would'st  have  it  thus. 

[While  they  are  in  each  other's  arms,  absorbed  and  gazing  with  ecstasy 
at  each  other,  DON  RUY  GOMEZ  enters  by  the  door  at  the  back  of 
the  stage,  lie  sees  them,  and  stops  on  the  threshold  as  if  petrified. 


304  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

As  Hernani  offers  to  yield  his  life  to  the  old  man  in  atonement  for  his 
breach  of  hospitality  the  King  is  announced.  The  Duke  conceals  Her- 
nani in  a  hiding-place  behind  a  picture  of  himself  and  refuses  to  give  up 
his  guest.  The  King  takes  Dona  Sol  as  hostage  for  her  uncle's  loyalty. 

Don  Carlos  and  his  train  gone,  Ruy  Gomez  releases  Hernani. 

DON  RUY  GOMEZ 

Come  forth,  young  man,  to  slay  me,  else 
To  be  slain. 

HERNANI 

To  die,  ah  yes!  Against 
My  will  thyself  hast  saved  me,  and  my  life 
Is  yours.    I  bid  you  take  it. 

But  in  peace 

I'd  calmly  die,  if  thou  wouldst  deign  that  ere 
My  soul  is  freed,  it  sees  once  more  the  soul 
That  shines  so  clearly  in  her  eyes.    To  her 
I  will  not  speak.    Thou  shalt  be  there  to  see, 
My  father,  and  canst  slay  me  afterwards. 

DON  RUY  GOMEZ  (pointing  to  the  recess  still  open) 

Oh,  Saints  of  Heaven!  can  this  recess  then  be 
So  deep  and  strong  that  he  has  nothing  heard? 

HERNANI 
No,  I  have  nothing  heard. 

DON  RUY  GOMEZ 

I  was  compelled 
To  yield  up  Dona  Sol  or  thee. 

HERNANI 
To  whom? 

DON  RUY  GOMEZ 
The  King. 

HERNANI 

Madman!    He  loves  her. 

DON  RUY  GOMEZ 

Loves  her!    Hel 

HERNANI 
He  takes  her  from  us!    He  our  rival  is! 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  305 

DON  RUY  GOMEZ 

Curses  be  on  him!    Vassals!  all  to  horse — 
To  horse!    Let  us  pursue  the  ravisher! 

HERNANI 

Listen!    The  vengeance  that  is  sure  of  foot 
Makes  on  its  way  less  noise  than  this  would  do. 
To  thee  I  do  belong.    Thou  hast  the  right 
To  slay  me.    Wilt  thou  not  employ  me  first 
As  the  avenger  of  thy  niece's  wrongs? 
Let  me  take  part  in  this  thy  vengeance  due; 
Grant  me  this  boon,  and  I  will  kiss  thy  feet, 
If  so  must  be.    Let  us  together  speed 
The  King  to  follow.    I  will  be  thine  arm. 
I  will  avenge  thee,  Duke,  and  afterwards 
The  life  that's  forfeit  thou  shall  take. 

DON  RUY  GOMEZ 

And  then, 
As  now,  thou'lt  ready  be  to  die? 

HERNANI 
Yes,  Duke. 

DON  RUY  GOMEZ 
By  what  wilt  thou  swear  this? 

HERNANI 
My  father's  head. 

DON  RUY  GOMEZ 
Of  thine  own  self  wilt  thou  remember  it? 

HERNANI  (giving  him  the  horn  which  he  takes  from  his  girdle) 

Listen!    Take  you  this  horn,  and  whatsoe'er 
May  happen — what  the  place,  or  what  the  hour — 
Whenever  to  thy  mind  it  seems  the  time 
Has  come  for  me  to  die,  blow  on  this  horn 
And  take  no  other  care;  all  will  be  done. 

DON  RUY  GOMEZ  (offering  his  hand) 
Your  hand!  [They  press  hands. 

(To  the  portraits) 
And  all  of  you  are  witnesses. 


306  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

The  scene  of  the  fourth  act  is  the  interior  of  the  vaults  which  enclose 
the  tomb  of  Charlemagne  at  Aix-la-Chapelle.  Don  Carlos  has  learned 
that  here  is  to  be  a  meeting  of  conspirators  against  him.  At  the  same 
time  the  Electoral  College  is  meeting  and  Carlos  hopes  that  he  will  be 
chosen  emperor.  In  a  monologue  Carlos  declares  his  ambitions. 

DON  CARLOS  (alone) 

Here  Charlemagne  rests!    How  can  the  sombre  tomb 
Without  a  rifting  spasm  hold  such  dust! 
And  art  thou  truly  here,  colossal  power, 
Creator  of  the  world?    And  canst  thou  now 
Crouch  down  from  all  thy  majesty  and  might? 
Ah,  'tis  a  spectacle  to  stir  the  soul 
What  Europe  was,  and  what  by  thee  'twas  made. 
Mighty  construction  with  two  men  supreme 
Elected  chiefs  to  whom  born  kings  submit. 

Pope  and  Emperor,  they  on  earth  are  all  in  all, 
A  mystery  supreme  dwells  in  them  both, 
And  Heaven's  might,  which  they  still  represent, 
Feasts  them  with  kings  and  nations,  holding  them 
Beneath  its  thunder-cloud,  the  while  they  sit 
At  table  with  the  world  served  out  for  food. 

They  make  and  all  unmake.    One  can  release, 
The  other  surely  strike.    The  one  is  Truth, 
The  other  Might.    Each  to  himself  is  law, 
And  is,  because  he  is.    When — equals  they 
The  one  in  purple,  and  the  other  swathed 
In  white  like  winding-sheet — when  they  come  out 
From  Sanctuary,  the  dazzled  multitude 
Look  with  wild  terror  on  these  halves  of  God, 
The  Pope  and  Emperor.    Emperor!  oh  to  be 
Thus  great!    Oh,  anguish,  not  to  be  this  Power 
When  beats  the  heart  with  dauntless  courage  fill'dl 
Oh,  happy  he  who  sleeps  within  this  tomb! 
How  great,  and  oh!  how  fitted  for  his  time! 

.        .        »        • 

What  destiny!    And  yet  'tis  here  he  lies? 

Is  all  so  little  that  we  come  to  this! 

What  then?    To  have  been  Prince  and  Emperor, 

And  King — to  have  been  sword,  and  also  law; 

Giant,  with  Germany  for  pedestal — 

For  title  Caesar — Charlemagne  for  name: 

A  greater  to  have  been  than  Hannibal 

Or  Attila — as  great  as  was  the  world. 

Yet  all  rests  here! 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  307 

Oh,  Empire,  power, 

What  matters  all  to  me!    I  near  it  now 
And  like  it  well.    Some  voice  declares  to  me 
Thine — thine — it  will  be  thine.    Heavens,  were  it  so! 
To  mount  at  once  the  spiral  height  supreme 
And  be  alone — the  key-stone  of  the  arch, 
With  states  beneath,  one  o'er  the  other  ranged, 
And  kings  for  mats  to  wipe  one's  sandall'd  feet! 

Wondrous  human  base 
Of  nations,  bearing  on  your  shoulders  broad 
The  mighty  pyramid  that  has  two  poles, 
The  living  waves  that  ever  straining  hard 
Balance  and  shake  it  as  they  heave  and  roll, 
Make  all  change  place,  and  on  the  highest  heights 
Make  stagger  thrones,  as  if  they  were  but  stools. 
So  sure  is  this,  that  ceasing  vain  debates 
Kings  look  to  Heaven!    Kings  look  down  below, 
Look  at  the  people! — Restless  ocean,  there 
Where  nothing's  cast  that  does  not  shake  the  whole; 
The  sea  that  rends  a  throne,  and  rocks  a  tomb — 
A  glass  in  which  kings  rarely  look  but  ill. 
Ah,  if  upon  this  gloomy  sea  they  gazed 
Sometimes,  what  Empires  in  its  depths  they'd  find! 

If  I  fail  when  there 

Feeling  my  feet  upon  the  trembling  world, 
Feeling  alive  the  palpitating  earth, 
Then  when  I  have  between  my  hands  the  globe 
Have  I  the  strength  alone  to  hold  it  fast, 
To  be  an  Emperor?    Oh,  God,  'twas  hard 
And  difficult  to  play  the  kingly  part. 
Certes,  no  man  is  rarer  than  the  one 
Who  can  enlarge  his  soul  to  duly  meet 
Great  Fortune's  smiles,  and  still  increasing  gifts. 
But  I!    Who  is  it  that  shall  be  my  guide, 
My  counsellor,  and  make  me  great? 

[Falls  on  his  knees  before  the  tomb. 

'Tis  thou, 

Oh,  Charlemagne!    And  since  'tis  God  for  whom 
All  obstacles  dissolve,  who  takes  us  now 
And  puts  us  face  to  face — from  this  tomb's  depths 
Endow  me  with  sublimity  and  strength. 
Let  me  be  great  enough  to  see  the  truth 
On  every  side. 

And  show  me  certainly 
Whether  to  punish,  or  to  pardon,  be 
The  worthier  thing  to  do. 


308  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Is  it  not  fact 

That  in  his  solitary  bed  sometimes 
A  mighty  shade  is  wakened  from  his  sleep, 
Aroused  by  noise  and  turbulence  on  earth; 
That  suddenly  his  tomb  expands  itself, 
And  bursts  its  doors — and  in  the  night  flings  forth 
A  flood  of  light?    If  this  be  true  indeed, 
Say,  Emperor!  what  can  after  Charlemagne 
Another  do!    Speak,  though  thy  sovereign  breath 
Should  cleave  this  brazen  door.    Or  rather  now 
Let  me  thy  sanctuary  enter  lone! 
Let  me  behold  thy  veritable  face, 
And  not  repulse  me  with  a  freezing  breath. 
Upon  thy  stony  pillow  elbows  lean, 
And  let  us  talk. 

Speak,  and  do  not  blind 
Or  if  thou  wilt  not  speak, 
Let  me  make  study  in  the  solemn  peace 
Of  thee,  as  of  a  world,  thy  measure  take, 
Oh  giant,  for  there's  nothing  here  below 
So  great  as  thy  poor  ashes.    Let  them  teach, 

Failing  thy  spirit.  [He  puts  the  key  in  the  lock. 

Let  us  enter  now.  [He  recoils. 

Oh,  God,  if  he  should  really  whisper  me! 
If  he  be  there  and  walks  with  noiseless  tread, 
And  I  come  back  with  hair  in  moments  bleached! 

The  conspirators  meet  and  choose  the  assassin  of  Don  Carlos.  The 
lot  falls  on  Hernani.  Ruy  Gomez  offers  to  buy  the  opportunity  from 
him  by  giving  him  Dona  Sol  and  returning  the  horn  whose  blast  is  to 
end  Hernani's  life.  Still  Hernani  refuses.  A  distant  cannon  booms  thrice, 
the  signal  that  Carlos  has  been  chosen  emperor.  He  steps  from  the  tomb, 
summons  his  guard,  and  orders  the  arrest  of  all  who  seem  noble  among 
the  conspirators.  Hernani  claims  a  place  among  them  by  virtue  of  his 
title,  for  he  is  Juan  of  Aragon,  Duke  of  Segorb6  and  Cardona.  Touched 
to  generosity  the  newly-made  emperor  gives  Dona  Sol  to  her  lover. 
"Duke  Juan,  take  your  wife." 

Don  Ruy  Gomez  frowns  upon  the  scene,  for  he  docs  not  forgive  Her- 
nani. Don  Carlos,  too,  suffers,  but  he  has  consolation.  He  bends  to- 
ward the  tomb. 

DON  CARLOS 

Art  thou  content  with  me,  oh  Charlemagne! 
Have  I  the  kingship's  littleness  stripped  off? 
Become  as  Emperor  another  man? 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  309 

Have  I  my  candle  lighted  at  thy  flame? 
Did  I  interpret  right  the  voice  that  spake 
Within  this  tomb?    Ah,  I  wa=  lost — alone 
Before  an  Empire — a  wide  howling  world 
That  threatened  and  conspired! 

A  score  of  nations,  each 

Of  which  might  serve  to  awe  a  score  of  kings. 
Things  ripe,  all  pressing  to  be  done  at  once. 
I  cried  to  thee — with  what  shall  I  begin? 
And  thou  didst  answer — Son,  by  clemency! 

The  last  act  shows  the  wedding  festivities  of  Hernani  and  Dofia  Sol, 
the  gayety  marred  only  by  the  forbidding  presence  of  a  Black  Domino. 
Hernani  and  Dona  Sol,  alone,  are  speaking  of  their  happiness  when  a 
horn  sounds  in  the  distance — the  signal  that  claims  Hernani 's  life  by 
virtue  of  his  promise  to  Don  Ruy  Gomez.  The  old  man  appears  in  the 
guise  of  the  Black  Domino  and  forces  the  fulfilment  of  the  oath.  Dona 
Sol  joins  her  husband  in  death  and  Don  Ruy  Gomez  kills  himself. 

Of  all  Hugo's  dramas,  some  in  prose  and  some  in  verse, 
"  Ruy  Bias  "  is  next  to  "  Hernani "  in  the  public  heart.  Again 
the  scene  is  laid  in  Spain,  always  vivid  to  Hugo  from  his 
childhood  days  spent  there,  and  the  action  and  characters 
are  full  of  change  and  contrast. 

This  great  man's  genius  was  not  limited  to  verse,  though 
he  excelled  in  both  dramatic  and  lyric  forms.  In  prose  fiction 
his  output  was  gigantic.  Novels  of  enormous  length  and 
rich  variety,  profound  in  inner  meaning,  and  plutocratic  in 
vocabulary,  rolled  from  his  pen  with  a  facility  born  of  delight. 
Of  these  tremendous  productions  it  is  hard  to  choose  the 
best  after  "Les  Miserables"  ("The  Wretched")  which  is  an 
acknowledged  masterpiece,  though  loose  in  construction. 
"Notre  Dame  de  Paris,"  named  from  the  ancient  cathedral 
whose  spirit  commands  the  action  of  the  story,  "The  Toilers 
of  the  Sea,"  dealing  with  the  life  of  the  Channel  Islands, 
"The  Man  Who  Laughs,"  the  tale  of  a  man  disfigured  in  his 
babyhood  by  mountebanks  and  doomed  to  belie  a  breaking 
heart  by  a  mirth-producing  face,  "Ninety-three,"  a  romance 


310  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

of  the  Revolution — these  novels,  vital  and  unusual,  illustrate 
yet  another  feature  of  the  Romantic  movement,  the  choice  of 
subjects  from  possibilities  considered  anathema  by  the 
Classicists. 

A  part  of  the  famous  account  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo 
from  "Les  Miserables"  will  give  an  idea  of  the  onrush  of 
words  which  ably  reflected  the  movement  they  described. 

THE  CATASTROPHE 

(From  "Les  Miserables."  Translated  by  Lascelles  Wraxall) 

The  rout  in  the  rear  of  the  guard  was  mournful;  the  army  suddenly 
gave  way  on  all  sides  simultaneously,  at  Hougomont,  La  Haye  Sainte, 
Papelotte,  and  Plancenoit.  The  cry  of  "Treachery"  was  followed  by 
that  of  "Sauve  qui  pent!"  An  army  which  disbands  is  like  a  thaw,— 
all  gives  way,  cracks,  floats,  rolls,  falls,  comes  into  collision,  and  dashes 
forward.  Ney  borrows  a  horse,  leaps  on  it,  and  without  hat,  stock,  or 
sword,  dashes  across  the  Brussels  road,  stopping  at  once  English  and 
French.  He  tries  to  hold  back  the  army,  he  recalls  it,  he  insults  it,  he 
clings  wildly  to  the  rout  to  hold  it  back.  The  soldiers  fly  from  him, 
shouting,  "Long  live  Marshal  Ney!"  Two  regiments  of  Durotte's  move 
backward  and  forward  in  terror,  and,  as  it  were,  tossed  between  the 
sabres  of  the  Hussars  and  the  musketry  fire  of  Kempt's,  Best's,  and 
Peck's  brigades.  A  rout  is  the  highest  of  all  confusions,  for  friends  kill 
each  other  in  order  to  escape,  and  squadrons  and  battalions  dash  against 
and  destroy  each  other.  Lobau  at  one  extremity,  and  Reille  at  the  other, 
are  carried  away  by  the  torrent.  In  vain  does  Napoleon  build  a  wall  of 
what  is  left  of  the  Guard;  in  vain  does  he  expend  his  own  special  squad- 
rons in  a  final  effort.  .  .  .  Napoleon  gallops  along  the  line  of  fugi- 
tives, harangues,  urges,  threatens,  and  implores  them;  all  the  mouths 
that  shouted  "Long  live  the  Emperor"  in  the  morning,  remained  wide 
open;  they  hardly  knew  him.  The  Prussian  cavalry,  who  had  come  up 
fresh,  dash  forward,  cut  down,  kill,  and  exterminate.  The  artillery 
horses  dash  forward  with  the  guns;  the  train  soldiers  unharness  the  horses 
from  the  caissons  and  escape  on  them;  wagons  overthrown  and  with  their 
four  wheels  in  the  air,  block  up  the  road  and  supply  opportunities  for 
massacre.  Men  crush  each  other  and  trample  over  the  dead  and  over  the 
living.  A  multitude  wild  with  terror  fill  the  roads,  the  paths,  the  bridges, 
the  plains,  the  hills,  the  valleys,  and  the  woods,  which  are  thronged  by 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  311 

this  flight  of  forty  thousand  men.  Cries,  desperation;  knapsacks  and 
muskets  cast  into  the  wheat;  passages  cut  with  the  edge  of  the  sabres; 
no  comrades,  no  officers,  no  generals  recognized — an  indescribable  terror. 
Ziethen  sabreing  France  at  his  ease.  The  lions  become  kids.  Such  was 
this  fight. 

.  .  .  .  The  victory  was  completed  by  the  assassination  of  the 
vanquished.  Let  us  punish  as  we  are  writing  history, — old  Bltlcher  dis- 
honoured himself.  This  ferocity  set  the  seal  on  the  disaster;  the  des- 
perate rout  .  .  .  only  stopped  at  the  frontier.  Alas!  and  who  was 
it  flying  in  this  way?  The  grand  army. 

Did  this  vertigo,  this  terror,  this  overthrow  of  the  greatest  bravery 
that  ever  astonished  history,  take  place  without  a  cause?  No.  The 
shadow  of  a  mighty  right  hand  is  cast  over  Waterloo;  it  is  the  day  of 
destiny,  and  the  force  which  is  above  man  produced  that  day.  Hence 
the  terror,  hence  all  those  great  souls  laying  down  their  swords.  Those 
who  had  conquered  Europe,  fell  crushed,  having  nothing  more  to  say 
or  do,  and  feeling  a  terrible  presence  in  the  shadow.  Hoc  erat  in  fails. 
On  that  day,  the  perspective  of  the  human  race  was  changed,  and  Water- 
loo is  the  hinge  of  the  igth  century.  The  disappearance  of  the  great 
man  was  necessary  for  the  advent  of  the  great  age,  and  He  who  cannot 
be  answered  undertook  the  task.  The  panic  of  the  heroes  admits  of 
explanation;  in  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  there  is  more  than  a  storm;  there 
is  a  meteor. 

At  nightfall,  Bernard  and  Bertrand  seized  by  the  skirt  of  his  coat,  in 
a  field  near  Genappes,  a  haggard,  thoughtful,  gloomy  man,  who,  carried 
so  far  by  the  current  of  the  rout,  had  just  dismounted,  passed  the  bridle 
over  his  arm,  and  was  now,  with  wandering  eye,  returning  alone  to 
Waterloo.  It  was  Napoleon,  the  immense  somnambulist  of  the  shattered 
dream  still  striving  to  advance. 

Hugo's  connection  with  the  politics  of  his  time  was  as 
intimate  as  might  be  expected  of  his  vivid  nature,  and  it  was 
reflected  in  his  work.  He  was  an  early  admirer,  a  later  ac- 
cuser of  Napoleon,  and  his  Napoleonic  verse  makes  a  group 
valuable  alike  to  the  student  of  history  and  of  literature.  He 
was  made  a  peer  by  Louis  Philippe  and  a  member  of  the 
National  Assembly  under  the  Republic  of  1848.  Identifying 
himself  with  the  people,  he  was  exiled  after  the  coup  d'etat 
of  1851  and  spent  eighteen  years  out  of  France  writing  poems, 


312  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

novels  and  political  monographs.  With  the  downfall  of 
Napoleon  III  and  the  re-establishment  of  the  Republic,  Hugo 
returned  to  Paris  in  time  for  the  siege  and  to  be  elected  to 
the  National  Assembly  of  1871. 

No  relaxation  appeared  with  Hugo's  advancing  age.  He 
was  eighty-three  when  he  died,  and  his  pen  was  busy  to  the 
last. 

Capable  of  the  widest  range  of  emotion  as  of  expression,  no 
aspiration  was  too  great,  no  incident  too  trifling  for  him  to 
record.  His  devout  attitude  before  Nature  is  evident  in 

OLD  OCEAN 

(From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature") 

I  stood  by  the  waves,  while  the  stars  soared  in  sight; 
Not  a  cloud  specked  the  sky,  not  a  sail  shimmered  bright; 

Scenes  beyond  this  dim  world  were  revealed  to  mine  eye; 
And  the  woods,  and  the  hills,  and  all  nature  around, 
Seemed  to  question  with  moody,  mysterious  sound, 

The  waves,  and  the  pure  stars  on  high. 
And  the  clear  constellations,  that  infinite  throng, 
While  thousand  rich  harmonies  swelled  in  their  song, 

Replying,  bowed  meekly  their  diamond  blaze; 
And  the  blue  waves,  which  nothing  may  bind  or  arrest, 
Chorused  forth,  as  they  stooped  the  white  foam  of  their  crest, 
"  Creator!  we  bless  thee  and  praise!" 

A  friend  of  Hugo  and  working  in  the  same  field  with  results 
that  seem  impressive  except  by  comparison  with  the  produc- 
tion of  such  an  unmatched  power,  ALEXANDER  DUMAS,  the 
elder  (1805-1870),  wrote  historical  dramas  which  achieved 
success  in  their  day  and  historical  romances  which  are  still 
read  in  ours.  The  plays  have  not  lived  because  they  lacked 
the  inner  touch  that  would  make  them  universal.  The  novels 
continue  to  charm  by  their  relation  of  exciting  adventures  met 
by  their  heroes  with  the  boldness  and  resource  which  we  all 
like  to  think  we  could  match  if  put  to  the  test.  The  trilogy 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  313 

of  the  musketeers  is  too  well  known  in  translation  to  need 
quotation  here. 

That  the  romantic  method  was  applicable  to  other  forms 
than  the  novel  and  the  drama  was  proven  by  the  activities  of 
AUGUSTIN  THIERRY  (1795-1856),  who,  inspired  by  Chateau- 
briand, told  the  tales  of  history  with  the  vividness  usually 
devoted  to  fiction. 

Similiarly  alive  was  JULES  MICHELET  (1798-1874)  to 
whom  the  writing  of  history  was  a  process  of  resurrection. 
He  vitalized  dry  bones  and  created  from  them  living,  pictur- 
esque figures  in  prose  instinct  with  poetic  suggestion.  His 
"France"  is  nobly  drawn. 

There  she  is,  this  France,  seated  on  the  ground,  like  Job,  among  her 
friends  who  come  to  console  her,  interrogate  her,  better  her  condition, 
if  they  can,  work  for  her  safety. 

"  Where  are  your  ships,  your  machines?  "  says  England.  And  Germany 
"Where  are  your  systems?  Have  you  not  then,  like  Italy,  at  least 
some  works  of  art  to  show?  " 

Good  sisters  who  thus  come  to  console  France  allow  me  to  reply.  She 
is  sick,  you  see;  I  see  her  with  her  head  lowered,  she  does  not  wish  to 
speak.  If  one  wished  to  heap  up  what  each  nation  has  contributed  of 
blood  and  gold  and  efforts  of  every  sort  which  could  be  of  use  only  to 
the  world,  France's  pyramid  would  mount  up  to  heaven.  .  .  .  And 
yours,  O  nations!  just  as  you  are  here,  ah!  your  heap  of  sacrifices  would 
rise  to  the  knees  of  a  child. 

Don't  then  come  to  tell  me:  "How  pale  she  is,  this  France!  .  .  ." 
She  has  shed  her  blood  for  you  ....  "How  poor  she  is!"  She 
has  given  without  counting  for  your  health.  .  .  .  And  having  no 
longer  anything,  she  says:  "Neither  gold  nor  silver  have  I,  but  what 
I  have,  I  give  you.  .  .  ."  Then  she  has  given  her  soul  and  it  is  on 
that  you  live. 

"What  is  left  her,  she  has  given.  .  .  ."  But  listen  closely,  Na- 
tions, know  that  without  us  you  would  have  never  learned:  "The  more 
one  gives,  the  more  one  keeps!"  Her  mind  can  sleep  within  her,  but 
it  is  always  whole,  always  near  a  powerful  dream. 

It  has  been  long  that  I  have  followed  France,  living  with  her  day  by 
day  for  two  thousand  years,  and  I  have  acquired  the  faith  that  thii 


314  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

country  is  one  of  invincible  hope.  It  must  be  that  God  gives  her  more 
light  than  any  other  nation,  since  in  full  night  she  sees  when  no  others 
do;  in  those  frightful  shadows  which  have  often  occurred  in  the  middle 
ages  and  since,  when  nobody  could  see  Heaven,  France  alone  saw  it. 

That  is  France.  With  her  nothing  is  concluded;  she  is  always  ready 
to  start  afresh. 

Unaffected  by  the  Romantic  Movement,  yet  lifted  above 
the  commonplace  to  which  the  classicists  had  sunk,  were  the 
members  of  a  group  of  orators,  historians  and  critics  who 
wrote  and  spoke  with  dignity  of  expression  as  well  as  thought. 
The  mention  of  the  names  of  the  political  and  literary  rivals, 
Guizot  and  Thiers  will  be  enough  to  place  these  men  among 
the  conservatives.  The  quotation  below,  from  FRANCOIS 
PIERRE  GUILLAUME  GUIZOT  (1787-1874)  compared  with  that 
from  Michelet,  will  show  how  definite  is  the  contrast  in  style 
and  method. 

*  In  studying  the  state  of  Gaul  in  the  fourth  and  fifth  centuries  we  found 
two  literatures,  one  sacred,  the  other  profane.  The  distinction  was  marked 
in  persons  and  in  things;  the  laity  and  the  ecclesiastics  studied,  meditated, 
wrote;  and  they  studied,  meditated,  and  wrote  upon  both  lay  and  religious 
subjects.  Sacred  literature  dominated  more  and  more,  but  it  was  not 
alone— profane  literature  existed. 

From  the  sixth  to  the  eighth  century  there  is  no  longer  any  profane 
literature;  sacred  literature  stands  alone;  priests  only  study  or  write;  and 
they  study  and  write,  save  with  some  rare  exceptions  only  upon  religious 
subjects.  The  general  character  of  the  epoch  is  the  concentration  of  in- 
tellectual development  in  the  religious  sphere.  The  fact  is  evident  whether 
we  regard  the  state  of  the  schools  which  still  existed,  or  the  works  which 
have  come  down  to  us. 

A  still  more  important  revolution,  and  less  perceived,  is  manifested: 
not  only  did  literature  become  entirely  religious,  but,  when  religious,  it 
ceased  to  be  literary;  there  was  no  longer  any  literature,  properly  so  called. 
In  the  finest  times  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  in  Gaul  up  to  the  fall  of  the 
Roman  empire,  people  studied  and  wrote  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  studying 

•  From  "  Half  Hours  with  the  Best  French  Authors." 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  315 

and  of  knowing,  in  order  to  procure  for  themselves  and  for  others  intel- 
lectual enjoyment.  The  influence  of  letters  over  society,  over  real  life, 
was  only  indirect;  it  was  not  the  immediate  end  of  the  writers;  in  a  word, 
science  and  literature  were  essentially  disinterested,  devoted  to  the  re- 
search for  the  true  and  the  beautiful,  satisfied  with  finding  them,  with  en- 
joying them,  and  pretending  to  nothing  more. 

At  the  epoch  which  now  occupies  us  it  was  otherwise;  people  no  longer 
studied  in  order  to  know;  they  no  longer  wrote  for  the  sake  of  writing. 
Writings  and  studies  took  a  practical  character  and  aim.  Whoever  aban- 
doned himself  thereto  aspired  to  immediate  action  upon  men,  to  regulate 
their  actions,  to  govern  their  life,  to  convert  those  who  did  not  believe,  and 
to  reform  those  who  believed  and  did  not  practise.  Science  and  eloquence 
were  means  of  action,  of  government.  There  is  no  longer  a  disinterested 
literature,  no  longer  any  true  literature.  The  purely  speculative  character 
of  philosophy,  of  poetry,  of  letters,  of  the  arts,  have  vanished;  it  is  no  longer 
the  beautiful  that  men  seek;  when  they  meet  with  it,  it  no  longer  serves 
merely  for  enjoyment;  positive  application,  influence  over  men,  authority, 
is  now  the  end,  the  triumphs  of  all  works  of  mind,  of  all  intellectual  develop- 
ment. 

It  is  from  not  having  taken  proper  heed  to  this  characteristic  of  the  epoch 
upon  which  we  are  occupied  that,  in  my  opinion,  a  false  idea  has  been 
formed  of  it.  We  find  here  scarcely  any  works,  no  literature,  properly  so 
called,  no  disinterested  intellectual  activity  distinct  from  positive  life.  It 
has  been  thence  concluded,  and  you  have  surely  heard  it  said,  you  may 
everywhere  read,  that  this  was  a  time  of  apathy  and  moral  sterility, — a  time 
abandoned  to  the  disorderly  struggle  of  material  forces,  in  which  intellect 
was  without  development  and  without  power. 


ADOLPHE  THIERS  (1797-1877)  shared  with  Guizot  and 
Lamartine  a  reputation  for  successful  activity  in  many  lines. 
His  journalistic  work  practically  brought  about  his  entrance 
into  a  public  life  which  culminated  in  his  election,  in  1871,  to 
the  presidency  of  the  Third  Republic,  and  his  speeches  were 
chiefly  political.  As  a  writer  Thiers  developed  economic  and 
historical  themes,  his  "Life  of  Napoleon"  being  his  strongest 
production.  The  following  short  extract  not  only  shows 
Thiers's  simplicity  of  expression,  but  gives  an  interesting 
account  of 


316  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

THE  POLICY  OF  NAPOLEON  IN  EGYPT 

(From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature") 

Bonaparte,  in  order  to  make  himself  better  acquainted  with  the  manners 
of  the  Arabs,  resolved  to  attend  all  their  festivals.  He  was  present  at  that 
of  the  Nile,  which  is  one  of  the  greatest  in  Egypt.  The  river  is  the  bene- 
factor of  the  country.  It  is,  in  consequence,  held  in  great  veneration  by  the 
inhabitants,  and  is  the  object  of  a  sort  of  worship.  During  the  inundation, 
its  water  is  introduced  into  Cairo  by  a  great  canal:  a  dike  prevents  it 
from  entering  the  canal  until  it  has  attained  a  certain  height;  the  dike  is 
then  cut,  and  the  day  fixed  for  this  operation  is  a  day  of  rejoicing.  The 
height  to  which  the  river  has  risen  is  publicly  proclaimed,  and  when  there 
are  hopes  of  a  great  inundation,  general  joy  prevails,  for  it  is  an  omen  of 
abundance. 

It  is  on  the  i8th  of  August  (ist  of  Fructidor)  that  this  festival  is  held. 
Bonaparte  had  ordered  the  whole  army  to  be  under  arms,  and  had  drawn 
it  up  on  the  banks  of  the  canal.  An  immense  concourse  of  people  had 
assembled,  and  beheld  with  joy  the  "brave  men  of  the  West"  attending 
their  festival.  Bonaparte,  at  the  head  of  his  staff,  accompanied  the  princi- 
pal authorities  of  the  country.  A  sheik  first  proclaimed  the  height  to  which 
the  Nile  had  risen.  It  was  twenty-five  feet,  which  occasioned  great  joy. 
Men  then  fell  to  work  to  cut  the  dike.  The  whole  of  the  French  artillery 
was  fired  at  once,  at  the  moment  when  the  water  of  the  river  poured  in. 
According  to  custom,  a  great  number  of  boats  hastened  to  the  canal,  in 
order  to  obtain  the  prize  destined  to  that  which  should  first  enter.  Bona- 
parte delivered  the  prize  himself.  A  multitude  of  men  and  boys  plunged 
into  the  waters  of  the  Nile,  from  a  notion  that  bathing  in  them  at  this 
moment  is  attended  with  beneficial  effects.  Women  threw  into  them  hair 
and  pieces  of  stuff.  Bonaparte  then  ordered  the  city  to  be  illuminated, 
and  the  day  concluded  with  entertainments. 


In  this  connection  Napoleon's  address  to  his  army  after 
the  disaster  of  Aboukir  is  quoted  here.  It  shows  both  the 
felicity  of  Thiers'  introduction  and  the  tact  and  clarity  of 
the  Great  General's  speech.  Comparison  of  these  compact 
phrases  with  those  of  the  famous  "  Forty  Centuries  here  look 
down  upon  you"  will  show  that  Napoleon  himself  was  the 
possessor  of  no  mean  style. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  317 

NAPOLEON'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  ARMY  AFTER  THE  DISASTER 
OF  ABOUKIR 

(From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature") 

On  the  festival  of  the  foundation  of  the  republic,  celebrated  on  the  ist  of 
Venddmiaire,  he  strove  to  give  a  new  stimulus  to  their  imagination:  he  had 
engraven  on  Pompey's  Pillar  the  names  of  the  first  forty  soldiers  slain 
in  Egypt.  They  were  the  forty  who  had  fallen  in  the  attack  on  Alexandria. 
These  forty  names  of  men  sprung  from  the  villages  of  France  were  thus 
associated  with  the  immortality  of  Pompey  and  Alexander.  He  issued  this 
grand  and  extraordinary  address  to  his  army,  in  which  was  recorded  his 
own  wonderful  history: — 

"  Soldiers: 

"  We  celebrate  the  first  day  of  the  year  VII  of  the  republic. 

"  Five  years  ago  the  independence  of  the  French  people  was  threatened : 
but  you  took  Toulon;  this  was  an  omen  of  the  destruction  of  your  enemies. 

"  A  year  afterwards  you  beat  the  Austrians  at  Dego. 

"  The  following  year  you  were  on  the  summits  of  the  Alps. 

"  Two  years  ago  you  were  engaged  against  Mantua,  and  you  gained  the 
famous  victory  of  St.  George. 

"  Last  year  you  were  at  the  sources  of  the  Drave  and  the  Isonzo,  on  your 
return  from  Germany. 

"  Who  would  then  have  said  that  you  would  be  to-day  on  the  banks  of 
the  Nile,  in  the  centre  of  the  Old  World? 

"  From  the  Englishman,  celebrated  in  the  arts  and  commerce,  to  the 
hideous  and  ferocious  Bedouin,  all  nations  have  their  eyes  fixed  upon  you. 

"  Soldiers,  yours  is  a  glorious  destiny,  because  you  are  worthy  of  what 
you  have  done  and  of  the  opinion  that  is  entertained  of  you.  You  will  die 
with  honor,  like  the  brave  men  whose  names  are  inscribed  on  this  pyramid, 
or  you  will  return  to  your  country  covered  with  laurels  and  with  the  ad- 
miration of  all  nations. 

"  During  the  five  months  that  we  have  been  far  away  from  Europe,  we 
have  been  the  object  of  the  perpetual  solicitude  of  our  countrymen.  On 
this  day,  forty  millions  of  citizens  are  celebrating  the  era  of  representative 
governments;  forty  millions  of  citizens  are  thinking  of  you.  All  of  them  are 
saying,  '  To  their  labors,  to  their  blood,  we  are  indebted  for  the  general 
peace,  for  repose,  for  the  prosperity  of  commerce,  and  for  the  blessing  of 
civil  liberty.'  " 

The  two  brothers  DE  MAISTRE,  JOSEPH  (1754-1821)  and 
XAVIER  (1763-1852)  represent  two  quite  different  forms  of 


3l8  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

literary  production.  Both  were  brilliant  and  witty,  but 
Joseph's  cleverness  was  exhibited  in  pamphlets  on  what 
would  be  called  today  political  science,  and  Xavier  was  del- 
icate, meditative,  whimsical  in  sketch  and  story.  His 
"Journey  around  my  Room"  is  much  read  in  schools. 

Still  another  writer  of  those  untouched  by  the  Romantic 
Movement  was  ABEL  VILLEMAIN  (1790-1870),  a  lecturer  on 
literature  at  the  Sorbonne.  With  him  began  one  of  the 
forms  of  that  criticism  of  literature  in  which  the  French 
greatly  delight — the  exposition  of  the  inter-relations  of 
history  and  literature. 

In  the  pulpit  and  on  the  platform  was  a  group  of  men  so 
brilliant  that  it  is  impossible  to  choose  among  them  for  this 
limited  chapter.  Lamennais,  Lacordaire,  Montalembert, 
Proudhon,  Cousin,  are  names  in  the  foremost  rank  of  the 
nineteenth  century  serious  writers.  ALEXIS  DE  TOCQUEVILLE 
(1805-1859)  has  a  special  interest  for  us  because  of  his  study 
of  "Democracy  in  America"  which  had  no  worthy  successor 
until  Ambassador  Bryce  wrote  the  "American  Common- 
wealth." 

In  verse  PIERRE  JEAN  DE  BERANGER  (1780-1857)  is  one  of 
the  best  examples  of  the  men  not  swept  into  the  romantic 
rush.  His  political  verse  had  cleverness  rather  than  any 
touch  of  greatness.  He  was  a  man  of  the  people,  and  his 
satire  was  highly  relished  by  his  contemporaries.  "The 
King  of  Yvetot,"  written  in  1813  when  Napoleon  was  striving 
to  conquer  all  Europe,  laughed  at  all  other  monarchs  for  their 
easy-going  qualities.  The  lines  have  been  paraphrased  by 
Thackeray : 

THE  KING  OF  YVETOT 

There  was  a  king  of  Yvetot, 

Of  whom  renown  hath  little  said, 
Who  let  all  thoughts  of  glory  go, 

And  dawdled  half  his  days  abed; 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  319 

And  every  night,  as  night  came  round, 
By  Jenny,  with  a  nightcap  crowned, 
Slept  very  sound: 

Sing,  ho,  ho,  ho!  and  he,  he,  he: 

That's  the  kind  of  king  for  me. 

And  every  day  it  came  to  pass, 

That  four  lusty  meals  made  he; 
And,  step  by  step,  upon  an  ass, 

Rode  abroad,  his  realms  to  see; 
And  wherever  he  did  stir, 
What  think  you  was  his  escort,  sir? 

Why,  an  old  cur. 
Sing,  ho,  ho,  ho!  etc. 

If  e'er  he  went  into  excess, 

'Twas  from  a  somewhat  lively  thirst; 
But  he  who  would  his  subjects  bless, 

Odd's  fish! — must  wet  his  whistle  first; 
And  so  from  every  cask  they  got, 
Our  king  did  to  himself  allot, 

At  least  a  pot. 
Sing,  ho,  ho!  etc. 

Neither  by  force  nor  false  pretence, 

He  sought  to  make  his  kingdom  great, 
And  made  (O  princes,  learn  from  hence) — 

"Live  and  let  live,"  his  rule  of  state. 
'Twas  only  when  he  came  to  die, 
That  his  people  who  stood  by, 

Were  known  to  cry. 
Sing,  ho,  ho!  etc. 

The  portrait  of  this  best  of  kings 

Is  extant  still,  upon  a  sign 
That  on  a  village  tavern  swings, 

Famed  in  the  country  for  good  wine. 
The  people,  in  their  Sunday  trim, 
Filling  their  glasses  to  the  brim, 

Look  up  to  him, 

Singing,  ha,  ha,  ha!  and  he,  he,  he! 
That's  the  sort  of  king  for  me. 


320  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

A  different  expression  of  Beranger's  admiration  is  found  in 

THE  GRANDMOTHER'S  TALE 

(Translated  by  William  Toynbee.    Courtesy  of  The  Walter  Scott  Publishing  Company) 

His  fame  shall  never  pass  away! 

Beside  the  cottage-hearth  the  hind 

No  other  theme  shall  list  to  find 
For  many  and  many  a  distant  day. 
When  winter  nights  their  gloom  begin, 

And  winter  embers  ruddy  glow, 
Round  some  old  gossip  closing  in, 

They'll  beg  a  tale  of  long  ago — 

"For  all,"  they'll  say,  "he  wrought  us  ill, 

His  glorious  name  shall  ne'er  grow  dim, 
The  people  love,  yes,  love  him  still, 

So,  Grandmother,  a  tale  of  him, 
A  tale  of  him!" 

"One  day  past  here  I  saw  him  ride, 

A  caravan  of  kings  behind; 

The  time  I  well  can  call  to  mind, 
I  hadn't  then  been  long  a  bride. 
I  gazed  out  from  the  open  door, 

Slowly  his  charger  came  this  way; 
A  little  hat,  I  think,  he  wore, 

Yes,  and  his  riding  coat  was  grey. 
I  shook  all  over  as  quite  near, 

Close  to  this  very  door  he  drew — 

'Good-day,'  he  cried,  'good-day,  my  dear!'" — 

"What,  Grandmother,  he  spoke  to  you, 
He  spoke  to  you?" 

"The  following  year  I  chanced  to  be 

In  Paris;  every  street  was  gay, 

He'd  gone  to  Notre  Dame  to  pray, 
And  passed  again  quite  close  to  me! 
The  sun  shone  out  in  all  its  pride, 

With  triumph  every  bosom  swelled, 
'Ah,  what  a  glorious  scene!'  they  cried, 

'Never  has  France  the  like  beheld!' 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  321 

A  smile  his  features  seemed  to  wear, 

As  on  the  crowds  his  glance  he  threw, 
For  he'd  an  heir,  at  last,  an  heir!"- 

"Ah,  Grandmother,  what  times  for  you, 
What  times  for  you!" 

"Then  came  for  France  that  dreadful  day 

When  foes  swept  over  all  the  land; 

Undaunted  he  alone  made  stand, 
As  tho'  to  keep  the  world  at  bay! — 
One  winter's  night,  as  this  might  be, 

I  heard  a  knocking  at  the  door; 
I  opened  it;  great  heavens!  'twas  he! 

A  couple  in  his  wake,  no  more; 
Then  sinking  down  upon  a  seat, 

Ay,  'twas  upon  this  very  chair, 
He  gasped  'Defeat!  ah  God,  defeat! "' 

"What,  Grandmother,  he  sat  down  there, 
He  sat  down  there  f" 

"He  called  for  food;  I  quickly  brought 

The  best  I  happened  to  have  by; 

Then  when  his  dripping  clothes  were  dry, 
He  seemed  to  doze  awhile,  methought; 
Seeing  me  weeping  when  he  woke, 

'Courage,'  he  cried,  'there's  still  a  chance; 
I  go  to  Paris,  one  bold  stroke, 

And  Paris  shall  deliver  France!' 
He  went;  the  glass  I'd  seen  him  hold, 

The  glass  to  which  his  lips  he'd  set, 
I've  treasured  since  like  gold,  like  gold!" — 

"How,  Grandmother,  you  have  it  yet, 
You  have  it  yet?  " 

"'Tis  there.    But  all,  alas,  was  o'er; 

He,  whom  the  Pope  himself  had  crown'd, 

The  mighty  hero  world-renown'd, 
Died  prisoner  on  a  far-off  shore. 
For  long  we  none  believed  the  tale, 

They  said  that  he  would  reappear, 
Across  the  seas  a^ain  would  sail, 

To  fill  the  universe  with  fear! 


322  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

But  when  we  found  that  he  was  dead, 
When  all  the  shameful  truth  we  knew, 

The  bitter,  bitter  tears  I  shed!" — 

"Ah,  Grandmother,  God  comfort  you, 
God  comfort  you!" 

Like  many  another,  whether  poet  or  man  of  prose,  whether 
contemporary  or  successor,  Beranger  fell  a  victim  to  the 
charms  of  Mary  Stuart.  When  she  left  France  to  return  to 
Scotland  she  wrote  the  quatrain  which  leads  the  verses  below. 
Beranger  finished  the  poem  with  incomparable  charm. 

MARY  STUART'S  FAREWELL 

(Translated  by  William  Toynbee.    Courtesy  of  the  Walter  Scott  Publishing  Company) 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  beauteous  clime, 

Scene  of  so  many  a  joy  gone  by! 
Land  of  my  girlhood's  golden  prime, 

Farewell!  to  leave  thee  is  to  die! 

Homeless,  in  thee  I  found  a  home, 

From  which  I  now  afar  must  flee; 
But  tho'  to  alien  shores  I  roam, 

Ah,  cease  not  to  remember  me! 
The  billows  sweep  the  vessel's  side, 

The  wind  is  waking  o'er  the  main, 
Ah,  why  will  Heaven  not  turn  the  tide, 

And  give  me  back  to  thee  again? 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  beauteous  clime, 

Scene  of  so  many  a  joy  gone  by! 
Land  of  my  girlhood's  golden  prime, 

Farewell !  to  leave  thee  is  to  die ! 

When,  lily-crown'd,  through  all  the  air 

I  heard  thy  people's  plaudits  ring, 
Was  it  because  a  queen  stood  there, 

Or  Mary  in  her  beauty's  spring? 
Of  what  avail  to  vaunt  the  sway 

Of  Caledonia's  drear  domain? 
Her  sceptre  I'd  resign  for  aye 

To  be  one  hour  thy  sovereign! 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  323 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  beauteous  clime, 

Scene  of  so  many  a  joy  gone  by! 
Land  of  my  girlhood's  golden  prime, 

Farewell!  to  leave  thee  is  to  die! 

'Mid  Glory's  glow,  and  Love's  delight, 

My  days  have  passed  in  bliss  supreme, 
But  yon  bleak  wilderness  of  blight 

Will  all  too  soon  dispel  the  dream! 
With  coming  ill  my  heart  is  fraught, 

Dread  phantoms  round  my  pillow  flock; 
Last  night  awaiting  me,  methought 

There  loomed  the  scaffold  and  the  block! 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  beauteous  dime, 

Scene  of  so  many  a  joy  gone  by! 
Land  of  my  girlhood's  golden  prime, 

Farewell!  to  leave  thee  is  to  die! 

Ah,  France,  my  France,  when  doom  draws  near, 

When  woe-begirt  I  end  my  days, 
To  thee  who  now  my  sobs  dost  hear, 

To  thee  I'll  turn  my  weeping  gaze! 
Slowly  the  shore  recedes  from  sight, 

Out  o'er  the  surf  my  bark  is  tost, 
And  in  the  deepening  gloom  of  night 

The  last  faint  glimpse  of  thee  is  lost! 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  beauteous  clime, 

Scene  of  so  many  a  joy  gone  by! 
Land  of  my  girlhood's  golden  prime, 

Farewell!  to  leave  thee  is  to  die! 

The  output  of  the  writers  of  this  first  half  of  the  nineteenth 
century  was  wonderfully  varied.  It  was  as  if  the  new  liberty 
so  inspired  them  that  one  form  alone  was  not  a  sufficient 
outlet.  Almost  every  great  name  of  the  day  will  appear  in 
more  than  one  list — among  dramatists  as  well  as  poets, 
among  novelists  as  well  as  dramatists.  CASIMIR  DELAVIGNE 
(1793-1843)  was  one  of  these  facile  writers.  He  had  a  great 
vogue  both  as  poet  and  dramatist.  His  lyric  verse  was, 


324 

perhaps,  over-praised,  but  both  in  tragedy  and  comedy  he 
effected  a  happy  combination  of  the  classic  and  the  romantic. 
A  writer  who  provoked  both  liking  and  annoyance  in  his 
day  was  Gustave  Nadaud  (1820-1893).  His  songs  were 
chiefly  for  the  moment — satires  on  politics  in  large  degree — 
and  he  would  have  no  place  here  by  the  side  of  men  of  far 
greater  importance  except  that  he  lives  in  one  poem  true  to 
human  nature.  It  is  called 

CARCASSONNE 

(Translated  by  M.  E.  W.  Sherwood) 

"How  old  I  am!    I'm  eighty  years! 
I've  worked  both  hard  and  long, 
Yet  patient  as  my  life  has  been, 
One  dearest  sight  I  have  not  seen, — 
It  almost  seems  a  wrong; 
A  dream  I  had  when  life  was  new, 
Alas,  our  dreams!  they  come  not  true: 
I  thought  to  see  fair  Carcassonne, — 
That  lovely  city,  Carcassonne! 

"One  sees  it  dimly  from  a  height 
Beyond  the  mountains  blue, 
Fain  would  I  walk  five  weary  leagues, — 
I  do  not  mind  the  road's  fatigues, — 
Through  morn  and  evening's  dew. 
But  bitter  frosts  would  fall  at  night, 
And  on  the  grapes, — that  yellow  blight! 
I  could  not  go  to  Carcassonne, 
I  never  went  to  Carcassonne. 

"They  say  it  is  as  gay  all  times 

As  holidays  at  home! 

The  gentles  ride  in  gay  attire, 

And  in  the  sun  each  gilded  spire 

Shoots  up  like  those  of  Rome! 

The  Bishop  the  procession  leads, 

The  generals  curb  their  prancing  steeds. 

Alas!  I  know  not  Carcassonne, — 

Alas!  I  saw  not  Carcassonne! 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  325 

"Our  Vicar's  right!  he  preaches  loud, 
And  bids  us  to  beware; 
He  says,  'O,  guard  the  weakest  part, 
And  most  the  traitor  in  the  heart 
Against  Ambition's  snare!' 
Perhaps  in  autumn  I  can  find 
Two  sunny  days  with  gentle  wind, 
I  then  could  go  to  Carcassonne, — 
I  still  could  go  to  Carcassonne! 

"My  God  and  Father!  pardon  me 

If  this  my  wish  offends! 

One  sees  some  hope,  more  high  than  he, 

In  age,  as  in  his  infancy, 

To  which  his  heart  ascends! 

My  wife,  my  son,  have  seen  Narbonne, 

My  grandson  went  to  Perpignan; 

But  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne, — 

But  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne!" 

Thus  sighed  a  peasant  bent  with  age, 
Half  dreaming  in  his  chair; 
I  said,  "My  friend,  come  go  with  me 
To-morrow;  then  thine  eyes  shall  see 
Those  streets  that  seem  so  fair." 
That  night  there  came  for  passing  soul 
The  church-bell's  low  and  solemn  toll, 
He  never  saw  gay  Carcassonne. 
Who  has  not  known  a  Carcassonne? 

Most  admired  then  and  best  known  now  among  dramatists 
was  EUGENE  SCRIBE  (1791-1861)  whose  plays,  chiefly  come- 
dies, are  put  on  today,  and  whose  varied  and  ingenious  plots 
have  furnished  material  for  the  playwrights  of  all  countries. 
"The  Ladies'  Battle"  and  "  Adrienne  Lecouvreur"  are  titles 
well-known  to  theatre-goers. 

The  Romantic  Movement  was  a  reflection  in  letters  of  the 
revolutionary  spirit  that  stirred  Spain,  Naples  and  Greece  in 
the  twenties  and  culminated  in  1830  in  the  suffrage  struggle 
in  England,  in  the  separation  of  the  Netherlands,  in  the  de- 


326  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

mand  for  more  liberal  constitutions  in  the  German  states, 
and  in  the  revolt  of  Poland.  In  like  manner  the  reaction  to 
Realism  in  the  middle  of  the  century  ran  parallel  to  the  up- 
heaval of  1848  which  sought  liberty  in  a  new  republic  in 
France,  and  which  made  a  struggle  for  unity  in  Germany  and 
Italy  and  Austria. 

Law  requires  that  every  uninterrupted  pendulum-swing  in 
one  direction  must  be  matched  by  an  equal  movement  in  the 
other.  The  early  enthusiasm  of  the  Romantics  was  some- 
what satisfied  by  twenty  years  of  expression  during  which 
they  had  worked  for  political  as  for  personal  liberty.  Now 
the  leaders  were  growing  old  and  it  was  natural  that  they 
should  become  less  imaginative  and  more  conservative.  The 
ferment  of  inventive  power  which  in  England  was  applied 
chiefly  to  industry,  in  France  made  its  most  noteworthy  de- 
velopment in  the  discoveries  of  Daguerre.  The  nation  was 
filled  with  interest  in  photography,  and  more  or  less  con- 
sciously literature  followed  the  model  of  exactness  which  it 
set.  Liberty  now  meant  the  less  spectacular  liberty  of  select- 
ing material  from  real  life  and  of  dealing  with  it  accurately. 

As  at  the  beginning  of  the  Romantic  Movement  there  had 
been  foreshadowing.  THEOPHILE  GAUTIER  (1811-1872) 
wrote  both  prose  and  verse  of  exquisite  imaginative  content 
expressed  with  precision  and  elegance.  Examples  of  both 
forms  follow. 

THE  NEST  OF  NIGHTINGALES  * 

About  the  chateau  there  was  a  beautiful  park. 

In  the  park  there  were  birds  of  all  kinds;  nightingales,  blackbirds,  and 
linnets;  all  the  birds  of  earth  had  made  a  rendezvous  of  the  park. 

In  the  spring  there  was  such  an  uproar  that  one  could  not  hear  one's  self 
talk;  every  leaf  concealed  a  nest,  every  tree  was  an  orchestra.  All  the  little 
feathered  musicians  vied  with  one  another  in  melodious  contest.  Some 
chirped,  others  cooed;  some  performed  trills  and  pearly  cadences,  others 

'Translated  by  George  Burnham  Ives  for  ''Thf-ophile  Gautier,"  in  Little  French 
Masterpieces  Series.  Permission  of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  327 

executed  bravura  passages  and  elaborate  flourishes;  genuine  musicians 
could  not  have  done  so  well. 

But  in  the  chateau  there  were  two  fair  cousins  who  sang  better  than  all 
the  birds  in  the  park;  Fleurette  was  the  name  of  one,  and  Isabeau  that  of 
the  other.  Both  were  lovely,  alluring,  and  in  good  case;  and  on  Sundays, 
when  they  wore  their  fine  clothes,  if  their  white  shoulders  had  not  proved 
that  they  were  real  maidens,  one  might  have  taken  them  for  angels;  they 
lacked  only  wings.  When  they  sang,  old  Sire  de  Maulevrier,  their  uncle, 
sometimes  held  their  hands,  for  fear  that  they  might  take  it  into  their  heads 
to  fly  away. 

I  leave  you  to  imagine  the  gallant  lance-thrusts  that  were  exchanged  at 
tournaments  and  carrousels  in  honour  of  Fleurette  and  Isabeau.  Their 
reputation  for  beauty  and  talent  had  made  the  circuit  of  Europe,  and  yet 
they  were  none  the  prouder  for  it;  they  lived  in  retirement,  seeing  almost 
nobody  save  the  little  page  Valentin,  a  pretty,  fair-haired  child,  and  Sire 
de  Maulevrier,  a  hoary-headed  old  man,  all  tanned  by  the  sun,  and  worn 
out  by  having  borne  his  war-harness  sixty  years. 

They  passed  their  time  in  tossing  seeds  to  the  little  birds,  in  saying  their 
prayers,  and,  above  all,  in  studying  the  works  of  the  masters  and  in  re- 
hearsing together  some  motet,  madrigal,  villanelle,  or  other  music  of  the 
sort;  they  also  had  flowers  which  they  themselves  watered  and  tended. 
Their  life  passed  in  these  pleasant  and  poetical  maidenly  occupations;  they 
remained  in  the  chateau,  far  from  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  yet  the  world 
busied  itself  about  them.  Neither  the  nightingale  nor  the  rose  can  conceal 
itself;  their  melody  and  their  perfume  always  betray  them.  Now,  our 
two  cousins  were  at  once  nightingales  and  roses. 

There  came  dukes  and  princes  to  solicit  their  hands  in  marriage;  the 
Emperor  of  Trebizond  and  the  Sultan  of  Egypt  sent  ambassadors  to  pro- 
pose an  alliance  to  Sire  de  Maulevrier;  the  two  cousins  were  not  weary  of 
being  maidens  and  would  not  listen  to  any  mention  of  the  subject.  Per- 
haps a  secret  instinct  had  informed  them  that  their  mission  here  on  earth 
was  to  remain  maidens  and  to  sing,  and  that  they  would  lower  themselves 
by  doing  anything  else. 

They  had  come  to  that  manor  when  they  were  very  small.  The  window 
of  their  bedroom  looked  upon  the  park,  and  they  had  been  lulled  to  sleep 
by  the  singing  of  the  birds.  When  they  could  scarcely  walk,  old  Blondiau, 
the  old  lord's  minstrel,  had  placed  their  tiny  hands  on  the  ivory  keys  of  the 
virginal;  they  had  possessed  no  other  toy  and  had  learned  to  sing  before 
they  had  learned  to  speak;  they  sang  as  others  breathed;  it  was  natural  to 
them. 

This  sort  of  education  had  had  a  peculiar  influence  on  their  characters. 


328  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Their  melodious  childhood  had  separated  them  from  the  ordinary  boister- 
ous and  chattering  one.  They  had  never  uttered  a  shriek  or  a  discordant 
wail;  they  wept  in  rhythm  and  wailed  in  tune.  The  musical  sense,  developed 
in  them  at  the  expense  of  the  other  senses,  made  them  quite  insusceptible 
to  anything  that  was  not  music.  They  lived  in  melodious  space,  and  had 
almost  no  perception  of  the  real  world  otherwise  than  by  musical  notes. 
They  understood  wonderfully  the  rustling  of  the  foliage,  the  murmur  of 
streams,  the  striking  of  the  clock,  the  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  fireplace,  the 
hum  of  the  spinning-wheel,  the  dropping  of  the  rain  on  the  shivering  grass, 
all  varieties  of  harmony,  without  or  within;  but  they  did  not  feel,  I  am  bound 
to  say,  great  enthusiasm  at  the  sight  of  a  sunset,  and  they  were  as  little 
capable  of  appreciating  a  painting  as  if  their  lovely  blue  and  black  eyes 
had  been  covered  with  a  thick  film.  They  had  the  music  sickness;  they 
dreamed  of  it,  it  deprived  them  of  their  appetite;  they  loved  nothing  else 
in  the  whole  world.  But,  yes,  they  did  love  something  else — Valentin  and 
their  flowers;  Valentin  because  he  resembled  the  roses,  the  roses  because 
they  resembled  Valentin.  But  that  love  was  altogether  in  the  background. 
To  be  sure,  Valentin  was  but  thirteen  years  of  age.  Their  greatest  pleas- 
ure was  to  sing  at  their  window  in  the  evening  the  music  which  they  had 
composed  during  the  day. 

The  most  celebrated  masters  came  from  long  distances  to  hear  them 
and  to  contend  with  them.  The  visitors  had  no  sooner  listened  to  one 
measure  than  they  broke  their  instruments  and  tore  up  their  scores,  con- 
fessing themselves  vanquished.  In  very  truth,  the  music  was  so  pleasant 
to  the  ear  and  so  melodious,  that  the  cherubim  from  heaven  came  to  the 
window  with  the  other  musicians,  and  learned  it  by  heart  to  sing  to  the 
good  Lord. 

One  evening  in  May  the  two  cousins  were  singing  a  motet  for  two  voices; 
never  was  a  lovelier  air  more  beautifully  composed  and  executed.  A  night- 
ingale in  the  park,  perched  upon  a  rose-bush,  listened  attentively  to  them. 
When  they  had  finished,  he  flew  to  the  window,  and  said  to  them,  in  night- 
ingale language: 

"  I  would  like  to  compete  in  song  with  you." 

The  two  cousins  replied  that  they  would  do  it  willingly,  and  that  he 
might  begin. 

The  nightingale  began.  He  was  a  master  among  nightingales.  His 
little  throat  swelled,  his  wings  fluttered,  his  whole  body  trembled;  he  poured 
forth  roulades,  flourishes,  arpeggios,  and  chromatic  scales;  he  ascended 
and  descended;  he  sang  notes  and  trills  with  discouraging  purity;  one  would 
have  said  that  his  voice,  like  his  body,  had  wings.  He  paused,  well  assured 
that  he  had  won  the  victory. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  329 

The  two  cousins  performed  in  their  turn;  they  surpassed  themselves. 
The  song  of  the  nightingale,  compared  with  theirs,  seemed  like  the  chirp- 
ing of  a  sparrow. 

The  vanquished  virtuoso  made  a  last  attempt;  he  sang  a  love  romanza, 
then  he  executed  a  brilliant  flourish,  which  he  crowned  by  a  shower  of 
high,  vibrating,  and  shrill  notes,  beyond  the  range  of  any  human  voice. 

The  two  cousins,  undeterred  by  that  wonderful  performance,  turned  the 
leaves  of  their  book  of  music,  and  answered  the  nightingale  in  such  wise 
that  Saint  Cecilia,  who  listened  in  heaven,  turned  pale  with  jealousy  and 
let  her  viol  fall  to  earth. 

The  nightingale  tried  again  to  sing,  but  the  contest  had  utterly  exhausted 
him;  his  breath  failed  him,  his  feathers  drooped,  his  eyes  closed,  despite 
his  efforts;  he  was  at  the  point  of  death. 

"You  sang  better  than  I,"  he  said  to  the  two  cousins,  "and  my  pride, 
by  making  me  try  to  surpass  you,  has  cost  me  my  life.  I  ask  one  favour 
at  your  hands;  I  have  a  nest;  in  that  nest  there  are  three  little  ones;  it  is 
on  the  third  eglantine  in  the  broad  avenue  beside  the  pond;  send  some  one 
to  fetch  them  to  you,  bring  them  up  and  teach  them  to  sing  as  you  do,  for  I 
am  dying." 

Having  spoken,  the  nightingale  died.  The  two  cousins  wept  bitterly 
for  him,  for  he  had  sung  well.  They  called  Valentin,  the  fair-haired  little 
page,  and  told  him  where  the  nest  was.  Valentin,  who  was  a  shrewd  little 
rascal,  readily  found  the  place;  he  put  the  nest  in  his  breast  and  carried 
it  to  the  chateau  without  harm.  Fleurette  and  Isabeau,  leaning  on  the 
balcony  rail,  were  awaiting  him  impatiently.  Valentin  soon  arrived,  hold- 
ing the  nest  in  his  hands.  The  three  little  ones  had  their  heads  over  the 
edge,  with  their  beaks  wide  open.  The  girls  were  moved  to  pity  by  the  little 
orphans,  and  fed  them  each  in  turn.  When  they  had  grown  a  little  they 
began  their  musical  education,  as  they  had  promised  the  vanquished 
nightingale. 

It  was  wonderful  to  see  how  tame  they  became,  how  well  they  sang. 
They  went  fluttering  about  the  room,  and  perched  now  upon  Isabeau's 
head,  now  upon  Fleurette's  shoulder.  They  lighted  in  front  of  the  music- 
book,  and  in  very  truth  one  would  have  said  that  they  were  able  to  read 
the  notes,  with  such  an  intelligent  air  did  they  scan  the  white  ones  and  the 
black  ones.  They  learned  all  Fleurette's  and  Isabeau's  melodies,  and  began 
to  improvise  some  very  pretty  ones  themselves. 

The  two  cousins  lived  more  and  more  in  solitude,  and  at  night  strains  of 
supernal  melody  were  heard  to  issue  from  their  chamber.  The  nightingales, 
perfectly  taught,  took  their  parts  in  the  concert,  and  they  sang  almost 
as  well  as  their  mistresses,  who  themselves  had  made  great  progress. 


330  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Their  voices  assumed  each  day  extraordinary  brilliancy,  and  vibrated 
in  metallic  and  crystalline  tones  far  above  the  register  of  the  natural 
voice.  The  young  women  grew  perceptibly  thin;  their  lovely  colouring 
faded;  they  became  as  pale  as  agates  and  almost  as  transparent.  Sire  de 
Maulevrier  tried  to  prevent  their  singing,  but  he  could  not  prevail  upon 
them. 

As  soon  as  they  had  sung  a  measure  or  two,  a  little  red  spot  appeared 
upon  their  cheek-bones,  and  grew  larger  and  larger  until  they  had  finished; 
then  the  spot  disappeared,  but  a  cold  sweat  issued  from  their  skin,  and  their 
lips  trembled  as  if  they  had  a  fever. 

But  their  singing  was  more  beautiful  than  ever;  there  was  in  it  a  some- 
thing not  of  this  world,  and  to  one  who  heard  those  sonorous  and  powerful 
voices  issuing  from  those  two  fragile  maidens,  it  was  not  diffcult  to  foresee 
what  would  happen — that  the  music  would  shatter  the  instrument. 

They  realised  it  themselves,  and  returned  to  their  virginal,  which  they 
had  abandoned  for  vocal  music.  But  one  night,  the  window  was  open, 
the  birds  were  twittering  in  the  park,  the  night  wind  sighed  harmoniously; 
there  was  so  much  music  in  the  air  that  they  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
to  sing  a  duet  which  they  had  composed  the  night  before. 

It  was  the  Swan's  Song,  a  wondrous  melody  all  drenched  with  tears, 
ascending  to  the  most  inaccessible  heights  of  the  scale,  and  redescending 
the  ladder  of  notes  to  the  lowest  round;  something  dazzling  and  incredible; 
a  deluge  of  trills,  a  fiery  rain  of  chromatic  flourishes,  a  display  of  musical 
fireworks  impossible  to  describe;  but  meanwhile  the  little  red  spot  grew 
rapidly  larger  and  almost  covered  their  cheeks.  The  three  nightingales 
watched  them  and  listened  to  them  with  painful  anxiety;  they  flapped  their 
wings,  they  went  and  came  and  could  not  remain  in  one  place.  At  last  the 
maidens  reached  the  last  bar  of  the  duet;  their  voices  assumed  a  sonority 
so  extraordinary  that  it  was  easy  to  understand  that  they  who  sang  were 
no  longer  living  creatures.  The  nightingales  had  taken  flight.  The  two 
cousins  were  dead ;  their  souls  had  departed  with  the  last  note.  The  night- 
ingales had  ascended  straight  to  heaven  to  carry  that  last  song  to  the  good 
Lord,  who  kept  them  all  in  His  Paradise,  to  perform  the  music  of  the  two 
cousins  for  Him. 

Later,  with  these  three  nightingales,  the  good  Lord  made  the  souls  of 
Palestrina,  of  Cimarosa,  and  of  Gluck. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  331 

*THE  CARAVAN 

The  human  caravan  day  after  day 
Along  the  trail  of  unreturning  years, 
Parched  with  the  heat,  and  drinking  sweat  and  tears, 

Across  the  world's  Sahara  drags  its  way. 

Great  lions  roar,  and  muttering  storms  dismay. 
Horizons  flee,  no  spire  nor  tower  appears, 
Nor  shade,  save  when  the  vulture's  shadow  nears, 

Crossing  the  sky  to  seek  his  filthy  prey. 

Still  onward  and  still  onward,  till  at  last 
We  see  a  place  of  greenness  cool  and  blest, 
Strewn  with  white  stones,  where  cypress-shade  lies  deep. 

Oasis-like,  along  Time's  desert  waste, 

God  sets  His  burial-grounds,  to  give  you  rest. 
Ye  way-spent  travellers,  lie  down,  and  sleep. 

In  the  novel,  HENRI  BEYLE  called  STENDHAL  (1783-1842), 
stands  as  the  early  exponent  of  that  sort  of  psychology  which 
makes  so  large  a  part  of  the  realist's  battery.  His  novels 
were  poorly  constructed,  but  the  minuteness  of  their  analysis 
shows  the  care  of  the  close  observer.  His  study  of  the  courage 
of  women  is  an  example. 

I  remember  meeting  the  following  phrase  in  a  history:  "All  the  men 
were  losing  their  heads;  it  is  now  that  the  women  show  incontestable 
superiority  over  them." 

Women's  courage  has  a  reserve  which  is  lacking  in  that  of  their  lover; 
they  pique  themselves  on  it  with  self-satisfaction,  and  find  so  much 
pleasure  in  being  able,  under  the  fire  of  danger,  to  dispute  firmness  with 
the  man  who  often  wounds  them  by  the  haughtiness  of  his  protection 
and  of  his  strength,  that  the  fervor  of  this  enjoyment  raises  them  above 
any  fear  whatever  which,  at  the  moment,  makes  the  weakness  of  men. 
A  man,  also,  if  he  received  such  succor  at  such  a  moment,  would  show 
himself  superior  to  everything;  for  the  fear  is  never  in  the  danger,  it  is 
in  us. 

I  am  not  trying  to  depreciate  the  courage  of  women:  I  have  seen  them 

•  Translated  by  Curtis  Hidden  Page,  (or  "The'ophile  Gautier,"  in  Little  French  Master- 
pieces.  Permission  of  Cj.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 


332  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

from  time  to  time  superior  to  the  bravest  men.  It  is  only  necessary  that 
they  should  have  a  man  to  love;  that  their  feelings  are  absorbed  in  him, 
and  the  most  frightful  and  direct  personal  danger  becomes  for  them  like 
a  rose  to  be  gathered  in  his  presence. 

I  have  found  also  in  women  who  did  not  love,  the  coolest  intrepidity, 
most  astonishing  and  most  exempt  from  nervousness. 

It  is  true  that  I  thought  that  they  were  not  so  brave  except  because 
they  were  ignorant  of  the  pain  of  the  wounds. 

As  to  moral  courage,  so  superior  to  the  other,  the  firmness  of  a  woman 
who  resists  her  love  is  in  itself  the  most  admirable  thing  that  can  exist 
on  earth. 

All  other  possible  marks  of  courage  are  negligible  beside  an  exhibition 
so  strongly  contrary  to  nature  and  so  painful.  Perhaps  they  find  strength 
in  this  habit  of  sacrifice  that  modesty  forces  them  to  contract. 

A  master  of  accurate  diction,  another  of  the  realist's 
strong  points,  is  PROSPER  MERIMEE  (1803-1870),  public  man 
and  novelist,  whose  tales  are  of  compact  construction  abound- 
ing in  beautiful  description.  Like  de  Maistre's  "Journey 
around  my  Room,"  Merimee's  "Colomba"  is  a  story  much 
liked  in  schools.  The  swift  march  of  this  author's  style  is 
well  shown  in  an  account  of 

THE  STORMING  OF  THE  REDOUBT 

(From  "  Half  Hours  with  the  Best  French  Authors  ") 

One  of  my  military  friends,  who  died  of  fever  in  Greece  some  years 
ago,  gave  me  an  account  one  day  of  the  first  affair  in  which  he  had  been 
engaged.  I  was  so  struck,  that  I  wrote  it  down  from  memory  as  soon 
as  I  had  leisure.  Here  it  is: — 

I  rejoined  the  regiment  on  the  evening  of  the  fourth  of  September. 
I  found  the  colonel  in  bivouac.  He  received  me  at  first  roughly  enough; 
but  when  he  had  read  the  letter  of  recommendation  from  General  B — , 
he  changed  his  tone,  and  addressed  some  kind  words  to  me.  He  pre- 
sented me  to  my  captain,  who  returned  at  that  instant  from  reconnoitre- 
ing.  This  captain  whom  I  did  not  have  much  time  to  know,  was  a  tall 
dark  man,  with  a  hard,  repulsive  physiognomy.  He  had  been  a  common 
soldier  and  had  gained  his  epaulets  and  his  cross  on  the  field  of  battle. 
His  voice,  which  was  hoarse  and  weak,  contrasted  strangely  with  his 
almost  gigantic  stature.  They  told  me  that  this  odd  voice  was  owing  to 
a  ball  which  had  pierced  him  through  and  through  at  the  battle  of  Jena. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIOXS-THE  NINETEENTH  333 

Learning  that  I  came  from  the  school  of  Fontainebleau,  he  made  a  grimace 
and  said,  "My  lieutenant  died  yesterday"  ...  I  understood  that 
he  meant  to  say  "  You  ought  to  take  his  place  and  you  are  not  capable 
of  it."  A  sharp  word  came  to  my  lips  but  I  restrained  myself. 

Directly  the  order  to  march  forward  had  been  given  us,  my  captain 
looked  at  me  so  fixedly,  that  I  was  forced  to  pass  my  hand  over  my 
young  moustache  with  as  easy  an  air  as  possible. 

A  rather  considerable  explosion  carried  off  my  shako  and  killed  a  man 
near  me. 

"I  congratulate  you,"  said  the  captain,  as  I  came  back  from  picking 
up  my  shako;  "you  are  quit  for  the  day."  I  knew  this  military  super- 
stition, that  the  axiom  non  bis  in  idem  finds  its  application  as  much  on  a 
field  of  battle  as  in  a  court  of  justice.  I  put  on  my  shako  proudly.  "  That's 
an  unceremonious  way  of  saluting  people,"  said  I  as  gaily  as  I  could. 
This  bad  joke,  under  the  circumstances,  seemed  excellent. 

To  this  carnage  succeeded  a  moment  of  stupor.  The  colonel,  putting 
his  hat  on  the  end  of  his  sword  was  the  first  to  climb  the  breastwork, 
shouting  "Vive  1'Empereur!  "  He  was  followed  immediately  by  all  the 
survivors.  I  have  hardly  any  further  clear  remembrance  of  what  fol- 
lowed. We  entered  the  redoubt.  I  do  not  know  how.  We  fought  hand 
to  hand,  in  the  midst  of  a  smoke  so  thick  that  we  could  not  see  one  an- 
other. I  believe  I  struck,  for  my  sword  was  all  bloody. 

At  last  I  heard  the  cry  of  victory  and,  the  smoke  clearing  off,  I  per- 
ceived that  the  ground  of  the  redoubt  was  quite  hidden  by  dead  bodies 
and  blood.  The  cannon,  particularly,  were  buried  under  a  heap  of 
corpses.  About  two  hundred  men  in  French  uniforms  were  grouped 
without  any  order;  some  were  loading  their  guns,  others  wiping  their 
bayonets.  Eleven  Russian  prisoners  were  with  them.  The  colonel  was 
lying  bleeding  on  a  broken  cannon  near  the  gorge.  A  few  soldiers  pressed 
round  him:  I  approached.  "Where  is  the  oldest  captain?"  he  asked  a 
sergeant.  The  sergeant  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  a  very  expressive 
manner.  "And  the  oldest  lieutenant?"  "This  gentleman  who  came 
yesterday,"  said  the  sergeant  in  a  perfectly  calm  tone.  The  colonel 
smiled  bitterly.  "Come,  sir,"  he  said  to  me,  "you  command  in  chief; 
have  the  gorge  of  the  redoubt  fortified  quickly  with  these  wagons,  for 
the  enemy  is  in  force;  General  C —  will  support  you."  "Colonel,"  I  said, 
"you  are  badly  wounded?"  "Done  for,  my  good  fellow,  but  the  re- 
doubt is  taken." 


334  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Madame  Dudevant  who  wrote  under  the  pen  name  of 
GEORGE  SAND  (1804-1876)  is  a  landmark  both  of  the  Ro- 
mantic and  the  Realistic  Schools,  for  her  style  changed  with 
the  changing  fashion.  A  woman  of  as  many  loves  as  de  Mus- 
set,  who  was  one  of  them,  she  was  emotional  and  enthusiastic 
both  in  her  early  writing,  whose  basis  was  pure  imagination, 
and  in  her  later  work  which  served  as  a  vehicle  to  set  forth 
political  notions  while  at  the  same  time  it  abounded  in  rich 
and  vigorous  description.  Like  Stendhal,  George  Sand 
builds  up  her  points  with  an  infinite  number  of  details,  all 
well-chosen  and  pertinent.  Comparison  with  the  extracts 
from  Chateaubriand  and  St.  Pierre  will  show  the  advance  of 
the  realistic  method  in  the  following  selection. 

A  MARCH  COUNTRY-SIDE 

Here  we  are  in  the  centre  of  France,  in  a  fresh  green  valley,  on  the  edge 
of  the  Indre,  beneath  a  shady  grove  of  beautiful  nut  trees,  which  looks 
out  over  a  country-side  altogether  sweet  to  the  eye  and  to  the  thought. 
This  consists  of  narrow  meadows  bordered  by  willows,  alders,  ashes  and 
poplars.  A  few  scattered  cottages;  the  Indre,  a  deep  and  silent  stream, 
which  unrolls  like  a  snake  asleep  in  the  grass,  and  which  the  trees  crowded 
along  either  bank  mysteriously  shroud  beneath  their  motionless  shadows; 
great  cows  chewing  the  cud  with  a  solemn  air;  colts  bounding  around 
their  mother,  a  miller  behind  his  sack  on  a  thin  horse  pursuing  his  way 
and  singing  in  order  to  dissipate  the  dulness  of  the  dark  and  stony  road; 
mills  ranged  along  the  river  bank  with  the  weirs  of  their  dams  boiling 
and  with  their  pretty  rustic  bridges,  that  you  would  not  traverse  without 
perhaps,  some  emotion,  for  they  are  not  at  all  solid  and  commodious;  an 
occasional  old  woman  plying  her  distaff  as  she  sits  behind  a  thicket  while 
her  flock  of  geese  hastily  make  a  marauding  trip  into  a  neighboring 
meadow;  there  you  have  the  sole  incidents  of  this  rustic  scene.  I  do  not 
know  how  to  tell  you  wherein  lies  its  charm,  but  you  would  surely  be 
filled  with  it,  especially  if  in  a  spring  night,  a  little  before  mowing  time, 
you  were  to  wander  along  these  paths  of  the  meadow,  where  the  grass 
with  its  thousand  flowers  rises  to  your  knees,  where  the  thicket  exhales 
the  perfume  of  hawthorn,  and  where  the  bull  bellows  mournfully.  Dur- 
ing a  night  toward  the  end  of  Autumn  your  walk  will  be  less  agreeable 


THI-:  n  MTRY  OF  IXVENTIOXS-THE  MNKTKKMH  .^5 

but  more  ro::\.!itic.  You  would  >tcp  through  moi-t  meadows  over  a 
^reat  cloth  of  mi-t  a>  white  as  silver.  You  \\ould  have  to  beware  of  the 
ditches  enlarged  by  the  overflow  of  >ome  brain  h  of  ll:e  river  and  hidden 
by  reed:-  ar.d  iri-.  You  would  tie  L'iven  warning  by  the  sudden  cessation 
of  the  i  ro.tkin:;  of  frn^.  who>e  evening  com  ert  would  he  disturbed  by 
your  approach.  Ar.d.  if.  by  chain  e,  there  were  to  pas>  he>ide  you  in 
the  mist  a  ^reat  white  shadow  with  a  rattling  of  chains  you  need  not 
jump  too  quickly  to  th'1  conclusion  that  it  is  some  speitre;  for  it  mi^rht 
well  be  some  farmer's  white  mare  dra.L^ir.j;  the  irons  with  wh.it li  her  fore 
feet  are  fettered. 

More  ambitious  in  plan  than  any  of  his  contemporaries, 
even  Hu,Lro,  was  HONORK  nr.  B.M.ZAC  ( 1 7(^0-1^50).  He  de- 
termined to  write  a  series  of  novels  which  should  develop 
man's  salient  characteristics,  the  whole  forming  a  Human 
Comedy  immense  in  scope,  valiant  in  execution.  Balzac  is 
not  subtle;  even  his  psychology  i^  objective;  he  could  not 
brush  the  dew  from  a  llower  without  crushing  the  llower.  Yet 
he  is  brilliantly  alert,  spectacularly  omniscient,  a  realist  in 
theme  and  romantically  realistic  or  realistically  romantic  in 
treatment.  His  expositions  of  the  trend  and  outcome  of 
passions  and  frailties  are  worthy  of  place  among  the  psycho- 
logical clashes.  lli>  method  built  up  a  character  bv  the  re- 
lation of  countless  details  and  with  no  stint  of  words.  At 
the  end  of  the  book  the  man  or  woman  reached  a  climax  of 
advance  or  degeneration  of  v.hc.-e  pmgn>s  no  step  had  been 
omitted,  and  of  v.ho-e  contributing  catisr->  of  inheritance  or 
environment,  of  inner  urging  or  outside  pressure  not  one 
had  been  pa--cd  over.  N'o  better  examples  ot  Ba!/.uc's  work 
can  be  found  than  "  F,U'./enir  (Irandet"  and  "  I\Ve  (I>>riot." 

Of  unmixed  reali>m  as  it  appeared  in  the  la>t  half  of  the 
nineteenth  cent  ury.  there  is  no  belter  exponent  than  KI:M .s  r 
Ri  NAN  '  i  .• .'  •,  i  ;.".  Morali.-t,  [ihilosopher,  i-hil<'logi>t, 
historian,  scicnti.-t,  Kenan  brought  a  ]io\\crn:l  mind  to  bear 
on  a  multiplicity  of  themes  wlm  h  lie  dexcloped  indi\  idually 
and  then  interwove  in  support  of  his  great  work  on  religion. 


336  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

A  student  of  all  religions  he  strove  to  extract  from  them  the 
essence  common  to  all.  By  his  treatment  of  Christianity  he 
roused  great  enmity,  some  of  it  justified  by  an  occasional 
flippancy  of  tone  and  some  of  it  understood,  whether  sym- 
pathized with  or  not,  by  us  of  later  day  accustomed  to  the 
methods  and  teachings  of  the  higher  criticism. 

Renan's  own  nature  was  gentle  and  sincere;  he  was  not  a 
vulgarian  who  wrote  for  the  pleasure  of  shocking;  he  was  an 
earnest  supporter  of  freedom  of  belief  and  of  the  application 
of  scientific  laws  to  the  facts  that  lie  behind  theology.  His 
work,  nevertheless,  forwarded  a  skeptical  reaction  against 
the  religious  impulse  set  in  motion  by  Chateaubriand. 

It  is  in  Renan's  literary  output  that  we  are  concerned, 
however,  for  he  stands  forth  as  a  prince  of  realists.  The 
photographic  instinct  was  strong  in  him,  yet  he  knew  how 
to  subordinate  the  unimportant,  to  select  the  vital,  and  to 
develop  everything  with  the  accuracy  of  the  scientist  and 
the  taste  of  the  artist.  His  main  work  is  that  of  the  thinker 
and  the  scholar,  but  he  delights  also  in  sketches  and  "mem- 
ories" which  are  delicately  executed  drawings.  Of  his  power 
of  cumulative  description  the  following  extract  from  "The 
Life  of  Jesus"  is  an  example. 

Nazareth  was  a  little  town,  situated  in  a  fold  of  the  land  wide  open  to 
the  summit  of  the  group  of  mountains  which  encloses  on  the  north  the 
plain  of  Esdrelon.  The  population  is  now  from  three  to  four  thousand 
souls,  and  it  cannot  have  greatly  varied.  In  winter  the  cold  is  sharp  and 
the  climate  healthful.  Nazareth,  at  this  epoch  like  all  the  Jewish  towns, 
was  a  group  of  buildings  built  with  no  style,  and  must  have  presented 
that  worn,  poverty-stricken  aspect  that  towns  in  Semitic  countries  offer. 
The  houses,  it  seems  to  me,  did  not  differ  much  from  those  cubes  of  stone, 
without  elegance  either  within  or  without,  which  today  cover  the  richest 
portions  of  Liban,  and  which,  placed  among  vines  and  fig  trees,  are  not 
without  a  certain  charm.  The  environs,  moreover,  are  delightful,  and 
no  place  in  the  world  was  so  well  made  for  dreams  of  absolute  happiness. 

Even  today  Nazareth  is  a  delightful  place  to  stay,  the  only  place, 
perhaps,  in  Palestine  where  the  soul  feels  itself  somewhat  relieved  from 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  337 

the  weight  which  oppresses  it  in  the  midst  of  this  unequalled  desolation. 
The  population  is  amiable  and  smiling;  the  gardens  are  fresh  and  green. 
Antonine  the  Martyr  at  the  end  of  the  sixth  century  draws  an  enchanting 
picture  of  the  fertility  of  its  surroundings  which  he  compares  to  Paradise. 
Some  valleys  on  the  west  side  plainly  justify  his  description.  The  foun- 
tain, where  formerly  the  life  and  gayety  of  the  little  village  was  concen- 
trated, is  destroyed.  Its  cracked  canals  give  only  trouble  in  the  water 
supply.  But  the  beauty  of  the  women  who  assemble  there  in  the  evening, 
that  beauty  which  was  already  noticed  in  the  sixth  century  as  a  gift  of 
the  Virgin  Mary,  is  continued  in  a  striking  manner.  It  is  the  Syrian  type 
in  all  its  languorous  grace.  No  doubt  Mary  was  there  nearly  all  her  days 
and  took  her  place,  an  urn  upon  her  shoulder,  in  the  line  of  her  fellow 
women  who  remained  obscure.  .  .  . 

If  ever  the  Christian  world  reaches  a  better  notion  of  what  constitutes 
respect  for  origins,  and  wishes  to  replace  by  authentic  holy  localities  the 
aprocryphal  shabby  sanctuaries  to  which  the  piety  of  grosser  ages  was 
attached  it  is  upon  this  height  of  Nazareth  that  it  will  build  its  temple. 
There,  on  the  spot  where  Christianity  appeared  and  at  the  centre  from 
which  radiated  the  activity  of  its  founder  should  be  raised  the  great 
church  where  all  Christians  could  pray.  There,  also,  in  this  land  where 
sleep  the  carpenter  Joseph  and  thousands  of  forgotten  Nazarenes  who 
never  rose  above  the  horizon  of  their  valley,  the  philosopher  would  be 
in  a  better  position  than  anywhere  else  in  the  world  to  contemplate  the 
course  of  human  affairs,  console  himself  for  the  contradictions  that  they 
oppose  to  our  dearest  instincts,  reassure  himself  as  to  the  divine  end  which 
the  world  pursued  through  innumerable  failures  and  in  spite  of  universal 
self-love. 

The  fall  of  Napoleon  III  and  the  establishment  of  the 
Third  Republic,  with  the  vicissitudes  of  Paris  besieged  and 
the  struggle  with  the  Prussians  seem,  for  once,  to  have  laid 
no  serious  check  on  literary  production.  Rather  strangely 
the  chief  poets  of  the  third  quarter  of  the  century  were  not 
realists  but  classicists.  They  thought  enough  of  their  own 
work  to  call  themselves  the  "Parnassians,"  but  none  of 
them  rose  to  the  impassioned  heights  which  the  name  would 
suggest.  Indeed  classicism  and  realism  impose  restrictions 
of  theme  which  permit  only  the  wings  of  a  superlative  genius 
to  attain  the  heights.  On  the  foothills  of  Parnassus,  however, 


338  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

dwelt  and  sang  a  group  of  men  who  gave  each  his  individual 
impress  to  verse  which  as  a  body  they  wrote  with  exquisite 
skill. 

LECONTE  DE  LISLE  (1820-1894)  led  the  poets  who  insisted 
that  the  lyric  form  did  not  demand  the  entire  soul  revelation 
in  which  the  Romanticists  delighted.  He  loved  the  Greek 
and  followed  ancient  models  with  precision. 

PAN 

(From  "Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature") 

Roistering  Pan,  the  Arcadian  shepherd's  god, 

Crested  like  ram  and  like  the  wild  goat  shod, 

Makes  soft  complaint  upon  his  oaten  horn. 

When  hill  and  valley  turn  to  gold  with  morn, 

He  wanders  joying  with  the  dancing  band 

Of  nymphs  across  the  moss  and  flowering  land. 

The  lynx-skin  clothes  his  back;  his  brows  are  crowned 

With  hyacinth  and  crocus  interwound, 

And  with  his  glee  the  echoes  long  rejoice. 

The  barefoot  nymphs  assemble  at  the  voice, 

And  lightly  by  the  crystal  fountain's  side, 

Surrounding  Pan  in  rhythmic  circles  glide. 

In  vine-bound  grottoes,  in  remote  retreats, 

At  noon  the  god  sleeps  out  the  parching  heats 

Beside  some  hidden  brook,  below  the  domes 

Of  swaying  oaks,  where  sunlight  never  comes. 

But  when  the  night,  with  starry  girdle  bound, 

Wafts  her  long  veils  across  the  blue  profound, 

Pan,  passion-flushed,  tracks  through  the  shadowy  glade 

In  swift  pursuit  the  nimble-footed  maid; 

Clasps  her  in  flight,  and  with  exulting  cries 

Through  the  white  moonlight  carries  off  his  prize. 

A  poet  whose  popularity  has  undergone  many  shifts  is 
SULLY-PRUDHOMME  (1839-1907)  whose  work  shows  a  happy 
commingling  of  grave  and  fanciful,  with  frequent  passages 
of  sober  beauty,  usually  teaching  a  lesson,  as  does 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  339 

THE  SHADOW 

(Translated  by  Arthur  O'Shaughnessy) 

We  walk:  our  shadow  follows  in  the  rear, 
Mimics  our  motions,  treads  where'er  we  tread, 
Looks  without  seeing,  listens  without  an  ear, 
Crawls  while  we  walk  with  proud  uplifted  head. 

Like  to  his  shadow,  man  himself  down  here, 

A  little  living  darkness,  a  frail  shred 

Of  form,  sees,  speaks,  but  with  no  knowledge  clear, 

Saying  to  Fate,  "By  thee  my  feet  are  led." 

Man  shows  but  a  lower  angel  who, 
Fallen  from  high  is  but  a  shadow  too; 
So  man  himself  an  image  is  of  God. 

And,  may  be,  in  some  place  by  us  untrod, 
Near  deepest  depths  of  nothingness  or  ill, 
Some  wraith  of  human  wraiths  grows  darker  still. 

Smitten  with  the  old-time  beauties  and  framing  them  in 
language  rich  in  imagination  is  Theodore  de  Banville's 

BALLADE  OF  THE  MIDNIGHT  FOREST 

(Paraphrased  by  Andrew  Lang) 

Still  sing  the  mocking  fairies,  as  of  old, 

Beneath  the  shade  of  thorn  and  holly-tree; 

The  west  wind  breathes  upon  them,  pure  and  cold, 

And  wolves  still  dread  Diana  roaming  free 

In  secret  woodland  with  her  company. 

Tis  thought  the  peasants'  hovels  know  her  rite 

When  now  the  worlds  are  bathed  in  silver  light, 

And  first  the  moonrise  breaks  the  dusky  grey, 

Then  down  the  dells,  with  blown  soft  hair  and  bright, 

And  through  the  dim  wood  Dian  threads  her  way. 

With  water-weeds  twined  in  their  locks  of  gold, 
The  strange  cold  forest-fairies  dance  in  glee; 
Sylphs  over-timorous  and  over-bold 
Haunt  the  dark  hollows  where  the  dwarf  may  be, 
The  wild  red  dwarf,  the  nixies'  enemy; 


340  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Then  'mid  their  mirth,  and  laughter,  and  affright, 
The  sudden  Goddess  enters,  tall  and  white, 
With  one  long  sigh  for  summers  pass'd  away; 
The  swift  feet  tear  the  ivy  nets  outright, 
And  through  the  dim  wood  Dian  threads  her  way. 

She  gleans  her  silvan  trophies;  down  the  wold 

She  hears  the  sobbing  of  the  stags  that  flee 

Mixed  with  the  music  of  the  hunting  roll'd, 

But  her  delight  is  all  in  archery, 

And  naught  of  ruth  and  pity  wotteth  she 

More  than  her  hounds  that  follow  on  the  flight; 

The  Goddess  draws  a  golden  bow  of  might 

And  thick  she  rains  the  gentle  shafts  that  slay. 

She  tosses  loose  her  locks  upon  the  night, 

And  through  the  dim  wood  Dian  threads  her  way. 


Prince,  let  us  leave  the  din,  the  dust,  the  spite, 

The  gloom  and  glare  of  towns,  the  plague,  the  blight: 

Amid  the  forest  leaves  and  fountain  spray 

There  is  a  mystic  home  of  our  delight, 

And  through  the  dim  wood  Dian  threads  her  way. 

CATULLE  MENDES  (1841-1909)  is  another  name  belonging 
to  this  classicist  group  which  found  its  point  of  contact  with 
the  realistic  poets  in  the  exactness  and  detail  to  which  each 
gave  allegiance. 

The  realistic  writers  and  even  more,  the  naturalistic,  who 
are  realists  plus,  act  on  the  belief  that  any  theme  is  worthy  of 
literary  treatment,  actuality  providing  the  halo  usually 
supplied  by  the  imagination.  The  result  is  that  both  the 
prose  and  the  verse  of  the  last  half  of  the  last  century  de- 
veloped in  fiction,  in  drama  and  in  poetry  a  mass  of  produc- 
tion often  of  such  extraordinary  merit  in  psychological  anal- 
ysis, in  descriptive  power,  and  in  technical  workmanship  that 
it  cannot  be  denied  a  place  in  real  literature,  yet  is  grudg- 
ingly admitted  because  of  a  serious  inherent  fault.  Literature 
truly  worthy  of  the  name  is  something  more  than  an  ex- 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  341 

hibition  of  craftsmanship,  however  accurate  or  brilliant.  If 
it  fails  to  create  and  support  a  healthy  mental  attitude  toward 
life,  if  it  fails  to  stir  the  spiritual  impulses,  in  just  such  degree 
it  fails  in  fulfilling  its  noblest  mission.  It  must  be  granted 
that  much  of  the  French  literature  of  this  period  achieves 
this  failure.  The  admission  is  made  with  regret,  for  the  frame 
is  too  perfectly  made  to  be  contrasted  with  an  unworthy  pic- 
ture, the  setting  too  exquisitely  elaborate  to  be  wasted  on  a 
sham  jewel. 

The  punishment  for  this  mistake  is  the  natural  outcome 
of  the  fault.  Frenchmen  wonder,  for  instance,  why  English 
and  Americans  think  them  a  nation  of  loose  domestic  ideas 
when  they  themselves  know  that  their  home  life  is  as  devoted 
and  affectionate  as  that  of  any  other  people.  They  have  only 
to  look  at  their  novels  and  plays  for  the  last  fifty  years  to 
find  the  answer  to  their  questioning. 

The  French  temperament  is  journalistic.  It  sees  in  vivid 
flashes,  it  enjoys  the  disclosures  caught  thus  melodramatic- 
ally, and  it  "plays  them  up."  That  the  Frenchman  has  wit 
where  the  Englishman  and  the  American  have  humor  is  a 
further  explanation  of  the  difference  in  taste  which  permits 
the  former  to  delight  in  the  fine  malice  of  a  clever  play  whose 
suggestiveness  must  be  expunged  entirely  when  it  is  adapted 
for  the  trans-Channel  and  trans-Atlantic  stage. 

A  just  example  of  the  qualities  which  make  the  grace  and 
the  disgrace  of  the  French  writers  of  this  school  is  the 
"  Madame  Bovary "  of  GUSTAVE  FLAUBERT  (1821-1880).  This 
novel  probably  comes  as  close  to  perfection  of  form  as  any 
work  of  fiction  ever  written  in  any  language.  It  is  praised 
for  its  closeness  of  construction  and  the  verbal  precision 
which  results  from  constant  re- writing;  for  its  acute  psycho- 
logical analysis  which  develops  all  the  comedy  or  pathos 
latent  in  every  character,  and  for  the  universality  of  its 
"types"  which  makes  it  a  book  that  lives.  Such  honor  is 


342  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTETS 

accorded  it  by  critics  of  all  nations; — but  to  the  Anglo-Saxon 
its  choice  of  situation  and  incident  is  so  abhorrent  that  the 
brilliancy  of  its  art  is  cast  into  shadow  by  the  murk  of  its 
spirit.  "Art  for  Art's  sake"  is  a  cry  not  confined  to  any  one 
time  or  country;  at  the  moment  it  is  heard  very  little  in 
England  and  America  and  France  herself  seems  to  be  coming 
to  a  realization  that  a  beautiful  soul  enhances  the  beauty  of 
a  fair  body. 

No  translation  can  do  justice  to  Flaubert's  exquisite  dic- 
tion; the  following  paragraph  describing  Rouen,  will,  how- 
ever, give  an  idea  of  the  happy  figures  which  enrich  his  care- 
fully chosen  details. 

At  a  single  glance  the  town  appeared.  Sloping  like  an  amphitheatre 
and  drowned  in  mist,  it  was  enlarged  confusedly  beyond  the  bridges. 
Farther  on  the  open  country  rose  again  monotonously  till  it  touched  in 
the  distance  the  uncertain  edge  of  the  pale  sky.  Seen  thus  from  a  height, 
the  entire  countryside  had  a  motionless  air  like  a  picture;  the  boats  at 
anchor  were  heaped  together  at  a  bend;  the  river  curved  into  a  bow  at  the 
foot  of  the  green  hills,  and  the  islands,  oblong  in  shape,  seemed  like  huge 
black  fish  motionless  on  the  water.  Factory  chimneys  belched  forth  great 
dark  plumes  feathering  toward  the  end.  The  roaring  of  the  foundries  mingled 
with  the  clear  chimes  of  the  churches,  which  rose  through  the  fog.  The 
trees  of  the  boulevards  made  violet  copses  of  leafless  brushwood  among 
the  houses,  and  the  eaves,  glistening  with  rain,  dappled  the  roofs  here  and 
there.  Sometimes  a  gust  of  wind  drove  the  clouds  towards  the  Saint 
Catherine  side,  like  aerial  surges  breaking  in  silence  against  a  cliff. 

Even  this  brief  extract  gives  a  hint  of  Flaubert's  imagina- 
tive power  sufficient  to  prevent  any  surprise  at  the  knowledge 
that  he  did  romantic  work  of  great  ability.  It  is  as  a  realist, 
however,  that  he  is  famous. 

Of  the  literary  forms  developed  almost  to  exhaustion  in 
the  France  of  the  nineteenth  century  the  novel,  the  short- 
story  and  literary  criticism  are  outstanding.  Contemporaries 
and  successors  of  Flaubert  followed  his  methods  and  enlarged 
them.  EMILE  ZOLA  (1840-1902)  for  instance,  massed  natural- 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  343 

istic  detail  around  themes  frequently  disgusting.  His  novels 
have  robust  problems  and  he  preaches  his  sermons  with  a 
fearlessness  that  lays  on  color  with  a  trowel  and  does  not 
hesitate  for  even  the  fraction  of  a  second  at  the  nomenclature 
of  a  spade.  Anyone  who  attempts  a  volume  must  expect  a 
treatment  coarse  as  well  as  powerful,  but  the  author's  pur- 
pose is  always  sane  and  honest.  "Lourdes,"  "Paris," 
"Le  Debacle"  ("The  Overthrow")  all  leave  an  impression 
of  inexhaustible  strength. 

While  separate  volumes  like  "The  Dream,"  and  individual 
characters  in  other  novels,  show  Zola's  ability  to  appreciate 
the  beautiful  and  the  delicate,  his  strength  both  as  teacher 
and  author  lies  in  his  merciless  exposure  of  the  degradation 
of  society.  Social  and  political  corruption  had  brought  about 
the  state  of  affairs  which  resulted  in  the  Franco-Prussian 
War,  in  the  overthrow  of  the  Second  Empire  and  in  the 
horrible  internal  dissension  of  the  Commune.  Zola  felt  that 
regeneration  would  be  more  rapid  if  the  causes  of  degenera- 
tion were  understood.  His  method  was  to  write  the  history 
of  different  members  of  a  supposititious  family,  the  Rougon- 
Macquart.  Each  novel  of  this  series  is  a  unit;  all  together 
they  make  a  terrific  arraignment  of  the  evils  of  French 
society  in  the  early  seventies. 

At  the  time  of  the  Dreyfus  case  Zola  defended  the  accused 
officer  with  a  vigor  which  finally  broke  down  his  health  and 
at  last  caused  his  death. 

The  de  Goncourt  brothers,  Edmond  (1822-1896)  and 
Jules  (1830-1870)  worked  in  collaboration,  and  succeeded  in 
becoming  popular  either  because  or  in  spite  of  a  style  original 
but  so  eccentric  and  involved,  so  burdened  with  revived  and 
manufactured  words  and  phrases,  so  combined  of  Ram- 
bouillet  "preciosity"  with  Browning  obscurity  as  to  be  almost 
unintelligible  to  a  foreigner.  "Germinie  Lacerteux"  is  their 
best  work. 


344  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Edmond  About  (1828-1885)  is  known  in  our  own  country 
by  his  imaginative  tales,  "The  Notary's  Nose"  and  "The 
Man  with  the  Broken  Ear"  which  have  long  been  read  in 
English  translation.  The  same  is  true  of  Saintine  and  his 
"Picciola,"  the  story  of  a  prisoner's  flower,  of  the  "Romance 
of  a  Poor  Young  Man"  of  Octave  Feuillet,  whose  simplicity 
and  sincerity  make  him  popular  in  schools,  together  with 
Emile  Souvestre  and  his  "Attic  Philosopher,"  with  the  col- 
laborators, Erckmann  and  Chatrian,  and  their  historical 
tales  of  which  "Madame  Therese"  is  an  example,  with 
Andre  Theuriet  and  his  rustic  stories,  and  with  the  joyously 
imaginative  travels,  "To  the  Center  of  the  Earth,"  "To  the 
Moon,"  "Around  the  World  in  Eighty  Days,"  of  Jules 
Verne.  Needless  to  say,  these  books  are  free  from  the  vul- 
garities of  "naturalism"  and  are  realistic  only  in  so  far  as  they 
strive  to  give  an  impression  of  actuality  to  imaginative  themes. 

A  few  sensational  writers  have  compassed  fame  of  a  certain 
quality.  They  are  Paul  de  Kock,  Hector  Malot,  Georges 
Ohnet,  whose  "Forge  Master"  has  been  dramatized  and 
played  in  this  country,  and  Eugene  Sue,  whose  "Wandering 
Jew"  and  "Mysteries  of  Paris"  are  well  known. 

A  realist  with  naturalistic  tendencies,  but  left  until  now 
because  of  his  work  in  the  field  of  the  short-story  as  well  as 
of  the  novel  is  GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  (1850-1893).  His  novel, 
"A  Life"  is  a  pathetic  horror  whose  good  intention  or  worthy 
purpose  it  is  hard  to  discover.  Many  of  de  Maupassant's 
short-stories  are  brutal,  but  others  are  pitiful,  others  tender, 
and  all  show  a  penetrating  psychology  and  a  masterly  work- 
manship which  has  made  them  models  for  the  short-story 
writers  of  other  countries. 

Like  de  Maupassant,  ALPHONSE  DAUDET  (1840-1897) 
worked  in  more  than  one  form.  His  novels  are  varied;  "The 
Little  Fellow"  tells  the  pathetic  tale  of  his  own  childhood; 
the  "Tartarin"  stories  record  the  burlesque  adventures  of  a 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  345 

south-of-France  boaster;  "Sapho"  is  a  naturalistic  warning 
to  young  men;  and  other  books,  equally  liked,  are  psycho- 
logical studies  of  different  social  classes.  In  his  shorter  work 
Daudet  shows  a  delicacy  and  restraint  that  put  him  in  the 
class  of  the  more  purely  psychological  fiction  writers  of  the 
end  of  the  century,  and  he  disputes  short-story  honors  with 
de  Maupassant. 

The  following  story  gives  a  touching  insight  into  the  grief 
of  the  Alsatians  when  Alsace  was  taken  over  by  Germany 
after  the  Franco-Prussian  War. 

*THE  LAST  CLASS 

I  was  very  late  for  school  that  morning,  and  I  was  terribly  afraid  of  be- 
ing scolded,  especially  as  Monsieur  Hamel  had  told  us  that  he  should  ex- 
amine us  on  participles,  and  I  did  not  know  the  first  thing  about  them. 
For  a  moment  I  thought  of  staying  away  from  school  and  wandering  about 
the  fields.  It  was  such  a  warm,  lovely  day.  I  could  hear  the  blackbirds 
whistling  on  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and  in  the  Rippert  field,  behind  the  saw- 
mill, the  Prussians  going  through  their  drill.  All  that  was  much  more 
tempting  to  me  than  the  rules  concerning  participles;  but  I  had  the  strength 
to  resist,  and  I  ran  as  fast  as  I  could  to  school. 

As  I  passed  the  mayor's  office,  I  saw  that  there  were  people  gathered 
about  the  little  board  on  which  notices  were  posted.  For  two  years  all 
our  bad  news  had  come  from  that  board — battles  lost,  conscriptions,  orders 
from  headquarters;  and  I  thought  without  stopping: 

"  What  can  it  be  now?" 

Then,  as  I  ran  across  the  square,  Wachter  the  blacksmith,  who  stood 
there  with  his  apprentice,  reading  the  placard,  called  out  to  me: 

"Don't  hurry  so,  my  boy;  you'll  get  to  your  school  soon  enough!  " 

I  thought  he  was  making  fun  of  me,  and  I  ran  into  Monsieur  Hamel's 
little  yard  all  out  of  breath. 

Usually,  at  the  beginning  of  school,  there  was  a  great  uproar  which  could 
be  heard  in  the  street,  desks  opening  and  closing,  lessons  repeated  aloud 
in  unison,  with  our  ears  stuffed  in  order  to  learn  quicker,  and  the  teacher's 
stout  ruler  beating  on  the  desk: 

"  A  little  more  quiet!  " 

I  counted  on  all  this  noise  to  reach  my  bench  unnoticed;  but  as  it  hap- 

•  Translated  by  George  Burnham  Ives  for  "Alphonse  Daudet"  In  Little  French 
Masterpieces  Series.  Permission  of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 


345  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

pened,  that  day  everything  was  quiet,  like  a  Sunday  morning.  Through 
the  open  window  I  saw  my  comrades  already  in  their  places,  and  Monsieur 
Hamel  walking  back  and  forth  with  the  terrible  iron  ruler  under  his  arm. 
I  had  to  open  the  door  and  enter,  in  the  midst  of  that  perfect  silence.  You 
can  imagine  whether  I  blushed  and  whether  I  was  afraid! 

But  no!  Monsieur  Hamel  looked  at  me  with  no  sign  of  anger  and  said 
very  gently: 

"  Go  at  once  to  your  seat,  my  little  Frantz;  we  were  going  to  begin  with- 
out you." 

I  stepped  over  the  bench  and  sat  down  at  once  at  my  desk.  Not  until 
then,  when  I  had  partly  recovered  from  my  fright,  did  I  notice  that  our 
teacher  had  on  his  handsome  blue  coat,  his  plaited  ruff,  and  the  black 
silk  embroidered  breeches,  which  he  wore  only  on  days  of  inspection  or  of 
distribution  of  prizes.  Moreover,  there  was  something  extraordinary, 
something  solemn  about  the  whole  class.  But  what  surprised  me  most  was 
to  see  at  the  back  of  the  room,  on  the  benches  which  were  usually  empty, 
some  people  from  the  village  sitting,  as  silent  as  we  were:  old  Hauser  with 
his  three-cornered  hat,  the  ex-mayor,  the  ex-postman,  and  others  besides. 
They  all  seemed  depressed;  and  Hauser  had  brought  an  old  spelling-book 
with  gnawed  edges,  which  he  held  wide-open  on  his  knee,  with  his  great 
spectacles  askew. 

While  I  was  wondering  at  all  this,  Monsieur  Hamel  had  mounted  his 
platform,  and  in  the  same  gentle  and  serious  voice  with  which  he  had  wel- 
comed me,  he  said  to  us: 

"My  children,  this  is  the  last  time  that  I  shall  teach  you.  Orders  have 
come  from  Berlin  to  teach  nothing  but  German  in  the  schools  of  Alsace 
and  Lorraine.  The  new  teacher  arrives  to-morrow.  This  is  the  last  class 
in  French,  so  I  beg  you  to  be  very  attentive." 

Those  few  words  overwhelmed  me.  Ah!  the  villains!  that  was  what  they 
had  posted  at  the  mayor's  office. 

My  last  class  in  French ! 

And  I  barely  knew  how  to  write!  So  I  should  never  learn!  I  must 
stop  short  where  I  was!  How  angry  I  was  with  myself  because  of  the 
time  I  had  wasted,  the  lessons  I  had  missed,  running  about  after  nests, 
or  sliding  on  the  Saar!  My  books,  which  only  a  moment  before  I  thought 
so  tiresome,  so  heavy  to  carry — my  grammar,  my  sacred  history — seemed 
to  me  now  like  old  friends,  from  whom  I  should  be  terribly  grieved  to 
part.  And  it  was  the  same  about  Monsieur  Hamel.  The  thought  that 
he  was  going  away,  that  I  should  never  see  him  again,  made  me  forget 
the  punishments,  the  blows  with  the  ruler. 

Poor  man!    It  was  in  honour  of  that  last  lesson  that  he  had  put  on 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  347 

his  fine  Sunday  clothes;  and  I  understood  now  why  those  old  fellows 
from  the  village  were  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  room.  It  seemed  to  mean 
that  they  regretted  not  having  come  oftener  to  the  school.  It  was  also 
a  way  of  thanking  our  teacher  for  his  forty  years  of  faithful  service, 
and  of  paying  their  respects  to  the  fatherland  which  was  vanishing. 

I  was  at  that  point  in  my  reflections,  when  I  heard  my  name  called. 
It  was  my  turn  to  recite.  What  would  I  not  have  given  to  be  able  to 
say  from  beginning  to  end  that  famous  rule  about  participles,  in  a  loud, 
distinct  voice,  without  a  slip  I  But  I  got  mixed  up  at  the  first  words, 
and  I  stood  there  swaying  against  my  bench,  with  a  full  heart,  afraid 
to  raise  my  head.  I  heard  Monsieur  Hamel  speaking  to  me: 

"I  will  not  scold  you,  my  little  Frantz;  you  must  be  punished  enough; 
that  is  the  way  it  goes;  every  day  we  say  to  ourselves:  'Pshaw!  I  have 
time  enough.  I  will  learn  to-morrow.'  And  then  you  see  what  happens. 
Ah!  it  has  been  the  great  misfortune  of  our  Alsace  always  to  postpone 
its  lessons  until  to-morrow.  Now  those  people  are  entitled  to  say  to  us: 
'What!  you  claim  to  be  French,  and  you  can  neither  speak  nor  write 
your  language!'  In  all  this,  my  poor  Frantz,  you  are  not  the  guiltiest 
one.  We  all  have  our  fair  share  of  reproaches  to  address  to  ourselves. 

"Your  parents  have  not  been  careful  enough  to  see  that  you  were 
educated.  They  preferred  to  send  you  to  work  in  the  fields  or  in  the 
factories,  in  order  to  have  a  few  more  sous.  And  have  I  nothing  to  re- 
proach myself  for?  Have  I  not  often  made  you  water  my  garden  instead 
of  studying?  And  when  I  wanted  to  go  fishing  for  trout,  have  I  ever 
hesitated  to  dismiss  you?  " 

Then,  passing  from  one  thing  to  another,  Monsieur  Hamel  began  to 
talk  to  us  about  the  French  language,  saying  that  it  was  the  most  beauti- 
ful language  in  the  world,  the  most  clear,  the  most  substantial;  that  we 
must  always  retain  it  among  ourselves,  and  never  forget  it,  because 
when  a  people  falls  into  servitude,  "so  long  as  it  clings  to  its  language, 
it  is  as  if  it  held  the  key  to  its  prison."  *  Then  he  took  the  grammar  and 
read  us  our  lesson.  I  was  amazed  to  see  how  readily  I  understood.  Every- 
thing that  he  said  seemed  so  easy  to  me,  so  easy.  I  believed,  too,  that  I 
had  never  listened  so  closely,  and  that  he,  for  his  part,  had  never  been  so 
patient  with  his  explanations.  One  would  have  said  that,  before  going 
away,  the  poor  man  desired  to  give  us  all  his  knowledge,  to  force  it  all 
into  our  heads  at  a  single  blow. 

When  the  lesson  was  at  an  end,  we  passed  to  writing.  For  that  day 
Monsieur  Hamel  had  prepared  some  entirely  new  examples,  on  which 
was  written  in  a  fine,  round  hand:  "France,  Alsace,  France,  Alsace." 
•  "S'il  tient  M  laugue,  il  lient  la  clt  (jui  de  so  chaines  le  ddlivre." — Mistral. 


348  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

They  were  like  little  flags,  waving  all  about  the  class,  hanging  from  the 
rods  of  our  desks.  You  should  have  seen  how  hard  we  all  worked  and 
how  silent  it  was!  Nothing  could  be  heard  save  the  grinding  of  the  pens 
over  the  paper.  At  one  time  some  cockchafers  flew  in;  but  no  one  paid  any 
attention  to  them,  not  even  the  little  fellows,  who  were  struggling  with 
their  straight  lines,  with  a  will  and  conscientious  application,  as  if  even 
the  lines  were  French.  On  the  roof  of  the  schoolhouse,  pigeons  cooed 
in  low  tones,  and  I  said  to  myself  as  I  listened  to  them: 

"I  wonder  if  they  are  going  to  compel  them  to  sing  in  German  too!" 

From  time  to  time,  when  I  raised  my  eyes  from  my  paper,  I  saw  Mon- 
sieur Hamel  sitting  motionless  in  his  chair  and  staring  at  the  objects 
about  him  as  if  he  wished  to  carry  away  in  his  glance  the  whole  of  his 
little  schoolhouse.  Think  of  it!  For  forty  years  he  had  been  there  in 
the  same  place,  with  his  yard  in  front  of  him  and  his  class  just  as  it  was! 
But  the  benches  and  desks  were  polished  and  rubbed  by  use;  the  walnuts 
in  the  yard  had  grown,  and  the  hop-vine  which  he  himself  had  planted 
now  festooned  the  windows  even  to  the  roof.  What  a  heart-rending 
thing  it  must  have  been  for  that  poor  man  to  leave  all  those  things,  and 
to  hear  his  sister  walking  back  and  forth  in  the  room  overhead,  packing 
their  trunks!  For  they  were  to  go  away  the  next  day — to  leave  the 
province  forever. 

However,  he  had  the  courage  to  keep  the  class  to  the  end.  After  the 
writing,  we  had  the  lesson  in  history;  then  the  little  ones  sang  all  together 
the  ba,  be,  bi,  bo,  bu.  Yonder,  at  the  back  of  the  room,  old  Hauser  had 
put  on  his  spectacles,  and,  holding  his  spelling-book  in  both  hands,  he 
spelled  out  the  letters  with  them.  I  could  see  that  he  too  was  applying 
himself.  His  voice  shook  with  emotion,  and  it  was  so  funny  to  hear 
him,  that  we  all  longed  to  laugh  and  to  cry.  Ah!  I  shall  remember  that 
last  class. 

Suddenly  the  church  clock  struck  twelve,  then  the  Angelus  rang.  At 
the  same  moment,  the  bugles  of  the  Prussians  returning  from  drill  blared 
under  our  windows.  Monsieur  Hamel  rose,  pale  as  death,  from  his  chair. 
Never  had  he  seemed  to  me  so  tall. 

"My  friends,"  he  said,  "my  friends,  I  —  I ' 

But  something  suffocated  him.    He  could  not  finish  the  sentence. 

Thereupon  he  turned  to  the  blackboard,  took  a  piece  of  chalk,  and, 
bearing  on  with  all  his  might,  he  wrote  in  the  largest  letters  he  could: 

"VivE  LA  FRANCE!" 

Then  he  stood  there,  with  his  head  resting  against  the  wall,  and  with- 
out speaking,  he  motioned  to  us  with  his  hand: 

"That  is  all;  go." 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  349 

Leaving  fiction  for  the  moment  other  forms  of  expression 
must  be  noticed. 

CHARLES  AUGUSTIN  SAINTE-BEUVE  (1804-1869)  applied 
to  criticism  the  realistic  method  of  elaboration  of  detail.  He 
was  not  content  with  commenting  upon  a  writer's  work  apart 
from  the  writer;  he  insisted  on  knowing  the  man's  ancestry 
and  environment  and  the  circumstances  of  his  life  which 
influenced  his  production.  His  work  is  vital,  and  has  an 
interest  born  of  intimacy  as  will  be  seen  by  the  following 
abridgement  of  his  essay  on 

MADEMOISELLE  DE  SCUDERY 
(Translated  by  Elizabeth  Lee.    Courtesy  of  the  Walter  Scott  Publishing  Company) 

I  am  not  going  to  attempt  a  rehabilitation,  but  it  is  well  to  have  ac- 
curate notions  of  certain  names  that  often  recur.  Mdlle.  de  Scude'ry's 
books  are  no  longer  read,  but  they  are  still  talked  of;  she  serves  to  desig- 
nate a  literary  style,  a  fashion  of  genius  in  a  celebrated  age;  she  is  a  medal 
which  almost  ended  by  passing  into  circulation  and  becoming  current  coin. 
What  is  its  value,  and  what  right  does  it  possess  to  the  title?  Let  us  do 
with  Mdlle.  de  Scud6ry  what  she  herself  liked  so  much  to  do,  let  us  examine, 
distinguish,  and  analyse. 

That  lady  of  extraordinary  merit,  as  she  was  called,  was  born  at  Havre 
in  1607,  under  Henri  IV.;  she  did  not  die  until  1701,  at  the  age  of  ninety- 
four,  towards  the  end  of  the  reign,  as  she  liked  to  say,  of  Louis  quatorzieme. 
Her  father  was  from  Provence;  he  had  been  transplanted  to  Normandy, 
and  had  married  there,  but  he  transmitted  something  of  the  southern 
temperament  to  his  children.  His  son,  George  de  Scud6ry,  was  celebrated 
for  his  heroical  verses,  his  boastings  and  rodomontades,  in  which  he  had 
the  misfortune  one  day  to  encounter  and  offend  Corneille,  and  posterity 
never  pardoned  him.  Mdlle.  Madeleine  de  Scuddry's  talent  was  quite 
different  from  that  of  her  brother;  Normandy,  if  I  may  say  so,  was  more 
conspicuous  in  her:  she  reasons,  argues,  pleads,  as  regards  intelligence, 
like  an  able  attorney  and  pettifogger.  However,  it  would  appear  that  she 
too  had  her  fair  share  of  the  family  vanity:  she  always  said:  "  Since  the  ruin 
of  our  house."  "  You  would  think  she  was  speaking  of  the  fall  of  the 
Grecian  Empire,"  observed  the  arch  Tallemant  des  R&iux.  The  boast 
of  the  Scuddrys  was,  in  fact,  that  they  were  descended  from  a  noble,  ancient, 
and  very  warlike  house,  originally  from  the  kingdom  of  Naples,  and  estab- 


350  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

lisbed  for  centuries  in  Provence.  Whilst  transforming  persons  of  her  ac- 
quaintance into  heroes  and  princes  in  her  romances,  Mdlle.  de  Scudery 
did  not  consider  she  was  going  out  of  her  own  house.  Having  lost  her 
parents  while  young,  Mdlle.  de  Scud6ry  had  been  brought  up  in  the  country 
by  an  uncle,  a  learned  man  and  a  gentleman,  who  took  great  pains  with  her 
education,  much  more  than  was  usual  at  that  period  with  young  girls. 
Writing,  orthography,  dancing,  drawing,  needlework,  she  learned  every- 
thing, Conrart  tells  us,  and  what  was  not  taught  to  her  she  discovered  for 
herself.  "  As  she  possessed  at  that  time  an  extraordinary  imagination,  an 
excellent  memory,  an  exquisite  judgment,  a  lively  disposition,  and  was 
naturally  inclined  to  inform  herself  concerning  all  she  saw,  the  curious 
things,  and  everything  that  she  heard  praised,  she  taught  herself  things 
connected  with  agriculture,  gardening,  the  household,  the  country,  the 
kitchen;  the  cause  and  effects  of  disease,  the  composition  of  an  infinitude 
of  remedies,  perfumes,  scented  waters,  distillations,  useful  or  agreeable, 
for  necessity  or  pleasure.  She  wanted  to  learn  to  play  on  the  lute,  and  took 
a  few  lessons  with  some  success."  But  the  lute  needed  too  much  time,  and, 
without  giving  it  up,  she  preferred  to  apply  herself  more  particularly  to 
occupations  of  the  mind.  She  learned  Italian  and  Spanish  perfectly,  and 
her  chief  delight  was  in  reading,  and  in  select  conversation,  which  she  was 
able  to  obtain  among  her  neighbours.  The  picture  that  Conrart  gives  us 
of  Mdlle.  de  Scudery's  early  education  reminds  us  of  Madame  de  Genlis's 
early  education  in  Burgundy,  and  I  will  say  from  the  first  that  in  studying 
her  as  closely  as  I  have  just  done,  Mdlle.  de  Scuddry  seems  to  me  to  have 
much  of  Madame  de  Genlis,  but  with  virtue  to  boot.  To  learn  everything, 
to  know  everything,  from  the  properties  of  simples  and  the  making  of  pre- 
serves to  the  anatomy  of  the  human  heart,  to  be  early  a  marvel  and  a 
prodigy,  to  derive  from  everything  that  took  place  in  society  material  for 
romance,  portraiture,  moral  dissertation,  compliment,  and  moral  lesson* 
to  unite  a  store  of  pedantry  to  an  extreme  delicacy  of  observation,  and  a 
perfect  knowledge  of  the  world,  are  characteristics  common  to  both.  It  is 
not,  however,  less  essential  to  note  the  differences.  Mdlle.  de  Scud6ry, 
"  who  was  very  nice-looking,"  and  of  a  somewhat  grand  air,  had  no  beauty. 
Tallemant  tells  us,  "  She  is  a  tall  woman,  thin  and  dark,  with  a  very  long 
face."  She  was  endowed  with  moral  qualities  that  have  never  been  denied. 
Respect  and  esteem  were,  for  her,  never  separated  from  the  idea  of  fame  and 
glory.  In  a  word,  she  was  a  Genlis  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIII.,  full  of  strength 
and  virtue,  who  remained  a  virgin  and  a  spinster  till  the  age  of  ninety- 
four.  The  relations  of  unlikeness  and  likeness  will,  without  our  dwelling 
on  them,  reveal  themselves  as  we  proceed. 
And,  further,  we  must  hear  her  speak  of  herself,  whenever,  under  a  thin 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  351 

disguise,  she  does  so.  In  most  of  her  dialogues,  when  making  her  characters 
converse,  she  finds  a  way,  at  every  pretty  speech  she  puts  into  their  mouths, 
to  make  the  one  who  replies  say:  "  All  that  you  say  is  well  said.  .  .  .  All 
that  is  wonderfully  to  the  point."  Or  according  to  a  phrase  she  delights 
in:  "That  is  very  clearly  expressed."  The  indirect  compliment  she  ad- 
dresses to  herself  continually  recurs,  and  she  is  inexhaustible  in  methods 
of  approving  herself.  She  has  partly  described  herself  in  the  character  of 
Sapho  in  the  tenth  volume  of  the  Grand  Cyrus,  and  the  name  of  Sapho 
stuck  to  her.  Those  who  had  read  the  Grand  Cyrus  never  called 
Mdlle.  de  Scud£ry  otherwise  than  "  the  admirable  Sapho."  .  .  . 

One  of  Mdlle.  de  ScudSry's  pretensions  was  to  know  thoroughly,  and  to 
describe  very  well,  the  most  secret  impulses  of  love,  although  she  had 
scarcely  felt  them,  except  by  reflection:  in  fact,  she  often  succeeded  in  all 
that  was  delicacy  and  refinement,  in  all  that  was  not  the  passion  itself. 
"  You  explain  that  so  admirably,"  might  be  said  to  her  with  a  character 
in  her  dialogues,  "that  if  you  had  done  nothing  all  your  life  but  be  in  love 
you  could  not  speak  of  it  better."  "  If  I  have  not  been  myself  in  love," 
she  would  reply,  with  her  most  charming  smile,  "  I  have  lady  friends  who 
have  been  in  love  for  me,  and  they  have  taught  me  to  speak  of  it."  That 
is  wit  indeed,  and  of  that  Mdlle.  de  Scud6ry  had  plenty. 

In  the  portrait  of  Sapho,  which  is,  in  so  great  part,  her  own,  she 
strongly  insists  that  Sapho  does  not  only  thoroughly  know  what  has  to 
do  with  love,  but  she  is  also  equally  well  acquainted  with  all  that  belongs 
to  generosity;  and  this  wonder  of  science  and  nature  is,  according  to  her, 
further  crowned  with  modesty.  .  .  . 

Mdlle.  de  Scuddry,  in  fact,  did  not  delay  to  bring  herself  into  notice. 
She  did  not  remain  long  in  the  country.  Having  lost  her  uncle,  she  hesi- 
tated between  Rouen  and  Paris;  but  her  brother,  who  at  that  time  was  held 
in  some  estimation  among  dramatic  authors,  and  whose  pieces  were  suc- 
cessful at  the  H6tel  de  Bourgognc,  decided  her  to  come  and  establish  her- 
self in  the  capital.  She  appeared  there  directly  with  success,  was  welcomed 
and  praised  in  the  best  society,  and  began  to  write  romances,  without, 
however,  putting  her  name,  but  concealing  herself  under  that  of  her  il- 
lustrious brother. 

Mdlle.  de  ScudSry's  real  epoch  is  at  that  period,  at  the  time  of  the  Re- 
gency, in  the  happy  days  of  Anne  of  Austria,  before  and  after  the  Fronde, 
and  her  reputation  lasted  without  any  check  until  Boileau,  true  kill-joy 
as  he  was,  made  an  attack  on  it.  "  That  Despr6aux,"  said  Legrais,  "  knows 
nothing  but  how  to  talk  about  himself  and  criticise  others.  Why  speak 
ill  of  Mdlle.  de  Scud6ry  as  he  has  done?  " 

In  order  to  understand  rightly  Mdlle.  de  Scuddry's  success  and  the  di- 


352  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

rection  her  talent  took,  the  aristocratic  society  of  Paris  as  it  was  before 
the  rule  of  Louis  XIV.  must  be  described.  For  some  years  a  taste  for  in- 
telligence and  literary  genius  had  prevailed,  a  taste  which  contained  more 
zeal  and  emulation  than  discernment  and  enlightenment.  D'Urf6's  ro- 
mance, Balzac's  letters,  the  great  success  of  the  dramas  of  Corneille  and  of 
the  other  fashionable  authors,  Richelieu's  slightly  pedantic  but  real  and 
efficacious  protection,  the  foundation  of  the  French  Academy,  had  all 
contributed  to  awaken  a  great  curiosity,  especially  among  women,  who  felt 
that  the  moment  for  them  to  put  society  on  their  level  was  come.  They 
were  freed  from  antiquity  and  the  classical  languages;  they  wished  to  know 
their  native  language,  and  applied  to  professional  grammarians.  Men  of 
the  world  acted  as  intermediaries  between  learned  men  properly  so  called 
and  the  drawing-rooms  in  which  they  desired,  while  instructing,  to  gain 
favour.  But  a  vast  want  of  experience  was  mingled  with  the  first  attempts 
at  a  serious  and  polished  society.  To  render  Mdlle.  de  Scud6ry  all  the 
justice  due  to  her,  and  to  assign  her  her  true  title,  she  ought  to  be  regarded 
as  one  of  the  instructresses  of  society  at  that  period  of  formation  and  transi- 
tion. That  was  her  role  and,  in  great  part,  her  aim. 

Tallemant  tells  us  that  in  conversation  she  had  a  tone  of  master  and 
preacher  which  was  by  no  means  agreeable.  The  tone  was  not  apparent 
in  her  romances,  coming  as  it  did  from  the  mouths  of  her  characters, 
and  a  certain  amount  of  study  is  necessary  now  to  discover  its  didactic 
basis.  Of  true  imagination  and  invention  Mdlle.  de  Scudery  had  none. 
When  she  wished  to  construct  and  invent  fictions,  she  took  the  plots 
most  in  vogue  at  the  moment;  she  procured  her  materials  from  the  fash- 
ionable shop  and  dressing-room;  she  imitated  the  process  of  d'Urf£  in 
Astrte.  In  so  doing  she  flattered  herself  that  she  combined  fiction  with 
history,  and  art  with  reality.  "  A  wise  man,"  she  thought,  "  never  per- 
mitted himself  to  invent  things  that  could  not  be  believed.  The  true 
art  of  falsehood  is  to  resemble  the  truth."  There  is  a  conversation  in 
Clille  where  the  "  way  to  invent  a  fable,"  and  the  writing  of  romances 
is  discussed.  Mdlle.  de  Scudery  nearly  preaches  observation  of  nature. 
She  puts  into  the  mouth  of  the  poet  Anacreon  almost  as  good  rules  of 
rhetoric  as  could  be  found  in  Quintilian.  It  is  a  pity  that  she  did  not  put 
them  more  into  practice.  At  the  present  time  it  would  be  impossible 
to  speak  of  Mdlle.  de  Scuddry's  romances,  and  to  analyse  them,  without 
calumniating  her,  so  ridiculous  would  she  appear.  We  should  impute 
to  her  alone  what  was  the  caprice  of  the  time.  To  appreciate  her  ro- 
mances properly  as  such,  we  should  be  obliged  to  go  back  to  the  models 
she  set  herself,  and  write  the  history  of  a  whole  branch  of  literature. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  353 

What  strikes  us  about  her  at  first  sight  is,  that  she  takes  all  the  people 
of  her  acquaintance  and  circle,  travesties  them  as  Romans,  Greeks, 
Persians,  Carthaginians.  The  principal  events  play  much  the  same 
part  as  is  assigned  them  in  history,  but  the  characters  are  made  to  talk 
and  think  as  she  knew  them  in  the  Marais. 

What  is  remarkable  and  really  of  worth  in  Mdlle.  de  Scud£ry's  ro- 
mances are  the  Conversations,  for  which  she  had  a  particular  talent,  a 
true  vocation.  Later,  when  her  romances  were  out  of  fashion,  she  made 
extracts  from  these  conversations  in  little  volumes,  which  appeared  suc- 
cessively to  the  number  of  ten  (she  scarcely  ever  did  anything  except  in 
ten  volumes.) 

She  treats  in  the  same  way  every  imaginable  subject;  she  gives  us  a 
short  complete  treatise,  often  too  complete,  in  which  she  combines  with 
the  historical  examples  she  had  collected,  the  anecdotes  she  gathered 
from  the  society  of  her  time.  She  analyses  everything,  she  dissertates 
on  everything,  on  perfumes,  pleasures,  desires,  moral  characteristics  and 
virtues;  once  indeed  her  observations  on  the  colour  of  the  wings  and  on 
the  flight  of  butterflies  are  almost  those  of  a  physicist  or  a  naturalist. 
She  conjectures,  refines,  symbolises;  she  seeks  and  gives  reasons  for 
everything.  Never  has  more  use  been  made  of  the  word  because.  There 
are  times  when  she  is  a  grammarian,  an  academician,  when  she  discusses 
the  synonomy  of  words,  and  carefully  distinguishes  their  acceptations; 
how  joy  and  enjoyment  differ;  whether  magnificence  is  not  an  heroic  and 
regal  quality  rather  than  a  virtue,  for  magnificence  is  only  becoming  to 
a  few  persons,  while  virtues  are  becoming  to  everybody;  how  magnanimity 
comprises  more  things  than  generosity,  which  has  usually  narrower 
limits,  so  that  we  may  sometimes  be  very  generous  without  being  truly 
magnanimous.  There  are  short  essays  which  she  names  most  charmingly, 
such  as  "On  Ennui  without  a  Cause."  In  some  respects,  in  the  Con- 
versations, Mdlle.  de  Scude>y  proves  herself  the  Nicole  of  women,  with 
more  refinement  perhaps,  but  with  a  foundation  of  pedantry  and  in- 
flexibility that  the  clever  theologian  did  not  possess.  And  then  Nicole 
ends  everything  by  God  and  the  consideration  of  the  supreme  end,  while 
Mdlle.  de  Scudery  invariably  finishes  by  the  praises  and  apotheosis  of 
the  King;  therein  she  puts  a  particular  skill  and  industry  noticed  by  Bayle, 
but  which  is  all  the  same  slightly  displeasing. 

In  fact,  the  estimable  lady,  long  ill-treated  by  fortune,  early  accus- 
tomed herself  to  pay  compliments  which  might  be  useful  to  her.  A 
certain  amount  of  tact  was  at  the  bottom  of  all  her  bad  taste.  No  one 


354  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

has  combined  more  insipid  praise  with  a  mania  for  redressing  the  little 
faults  of  the  society  round  her.  What  would  you  have?  it  was  necessary 
to  her  to  sell  her  books,  and  see  them  placed  under  illustrious  patronage. 
And  then  to  describe  her  friends  and  acquaintances  at  length,  their  town 
houses  and  their  country  houses,  served,  while  flattering  them,  to  fill 
pages  and  enlarge  the  volume.  Sapho  was  not  above  such  little  methods 
of  her  craft.  "Truly,"  said  Tallemant,  "she  wants  to  leave  no  stone 
unturned.  When  I  think  seriously  of  it,  I  forgive  her."  She  liked  such 
positive  proofs  as  little  presents,  favours,  pensions,  to  be  added  to  the 
consideration  that  never  failed  her.  It  somewhat  contributed  to  lower 
the  moralist  in  her,  and  to  limit  her  view  to  the  narrow  circle  of  the 
society  of  the  time. 

In  some  places,  however,  we  believe  we  recognise  a  firm  and  almost 
vigorous  mind,  a  mind  that  approaches  lofty  subjects  with  critical  acute- 
ness,  and  understands  their  different  aspects;  and  while  always  submitting 
to  received  opinions,  is,  above  all,  determined  by  considerations  of  pro- 
priety. 

Mdlle.  de  Scudery  was  approaching  sixty  years  of  age  when  Boileau 
appeared  and  began,  in  his  early  Satires  (1665),  to  ridicule  the  long 
romances,  and  to  regard  an  admiration  for  Cyrus  as  only  permissible  to 
country  squires.  The  war  boldly  declared  by  Boileau  against  a  false 
style  in  literature  that  had  had  its  day,  and  only  survived  through  super- 
stition, struck  it  a  mortal  blow,  and  from  that  time  Mdlle.  de  Scudery 
was  for  the  new  generation  merely  an  antiquated  author  out  of  date. 
Madame  de  la  Fayette  finished  the  work  of  reducing  Mdlle.  de  Scudery 
to  the  rank  of  a  venerable  antique  by  publishing  her  own  two  romances 
of  Zaide  and  the  Princesse  de  Cleves,  where  she  let  it  be  seen  how  concise, 
natural,  and  refined  it  was  possible  to  be. 

In  1671  the  French  Academy  awarded,  for  the  first  time,  the  prize  for 
eloquence  founded  by  Balzac.  The  prize  was  at  first  awarded  for  a  sort 
of  treatise  or  sermon  on  a  Christian  virtue.  The  first  subject,  fixed  by 
Balzac  himself,  was  "Praise  and  Glory."  Mdlle.  de  Scudery  wrote  an 
essay  and  gained  the  prize,  to  the  great  applause  of  all  who  remained  of 
the  old  academicians  of  Richelieu's  time.  The  Muse,  who  with  the 
greatest  ease  carried  off  the  first  crown  and  led  the  procession  of  future 
laureates,  was  then  sixty-four  years  old. 

She  continued  to  grow  old  and  to  outlive  her  fame,  deprived  of  reputa- 
tion in  the  outer  world,  but  still  enjoying  glory  in  private,  within  the 
closed  doors  of  her  own  room.  Her  merit  and  her  estimable  qualities 
gained  her  a  little  court  of  friends,  who  spoke  of  her  as  "the  first  woman 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  355 

in  the  world,"  and  "the  wonder  of  the  age  of  Louis  the  Great."  When 
she  died,  June  2,  1701,  the  Journal  des  Savants  of  the  following  month 
(July  n)  recorded  those  magnificent  eulogies. 

HIPPOLYTE  TAINE  (1828-1893)  was  another  of  the  critics 
whom  this  century  developed  in  good  number  and  quality. 
Taine's  "History  of  English  Literature"  is  valuable  for 
judgments  made  without  bias  and  lacking  only  where  it  is 
impossible  for  a  man  of  different  race  to  understand  the 
English  "genius."  He  was  stirred  by  the  excitements  of 
1870  to  the  writing  of  history  to  which  he  also  applied  his 
trained  critical  faculty. 

*  Now  appeared  the  English  romantic  school,  closely  resembling  the 
French  in  its  doctrines,  origin,  and  alliances,  in  the  truths  which  it  dis- 
covered, the  exaggerations  it  committed,  and  the  scandal  it  excited.  .  . 

In  this  confusion  of  labours  two  great  ideas  are  distinguished:  the  first 
producing  historical  poetry,  the  second  philosophical;  the  one  especially 
manifest  in  Southey  and  Walter  Scott,  the  other  in  Wordsworth  and 
Shelley;  both  European,  and  displayed  with  equal  brilliancy  in  France 
by  Hugo,  Lamartine,  and  Musset;  with  greater  brilliancy  in  Germany 
by  Goethe,  Schiller,  Ruckert,  and  Heine;  both  so  profound,  that  none 
of  their  representatives,  except  Goethe,  divined  their  scope;  and  hardly 
now,  after  more  than  half  a  century,  can  we  define  their  nature,  so  as  to 
forecast  their  results. 

The  first  consists  in  saying,  or  rather  foreboding,  that  our  ideal  is  not 
the  ideal;  it  is  one  ideal  but  there  are  others.  The  barbarian,  the  feudal 
man,  the  cavalier  of  the  Renaissance,  the  Mussulman,  the  Indian,  each 
age  and  each  race  has  conceived  its  beauty,  which  was  a  beauty.  Let 
us  enjoy  it,  and  for  this  purpose  put  ourselves  in  the  place  of  the  dis- 
coverers; altogether;  for  it  will  not  suffice  to  represent,  like  the  previous 
novelists  and  dramatists,  modern  and  national  manners  under  old  and 
foreign  names;  let  us  paint  the  sentiments  of  other  ages  and  other  races 
with  their  own  features,  however  different  these  features  may  be  from 
our  own,  and  however  unpleasing  to  our  taste.  Let  us  show  our  charac- 
ter as  he  was,  grotesque  or  not,  with  his  costume  and  speech:  let  him  be 
fierce  and  superstitious  if  he  was  so;  let  us  dash  the  barbarian  with  blood, 
and  load  the  covenanter  with  his  bundle  of  biblical  texts.  Then  one  by 
•  Translated  by  H.  Van  Laun. 


356  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

one  on  the  literary  stage  men  saw  the  vanished  or  distant  civilisations 
return:  first  the  middle  age  and  the  Renaissance;  then  Arabia,  Hindostan, 
and  Persia;  then  the  classical  age,  and  the  eighteenth  century  itself;  and 
the  historic  taste  becomes  so  eager,  that  from  literature  the  contagion 
spread  to  other  arts.  The  theatre  changed  its  conventional  costumes 
and  decorations  into  true  ones.  Architecture  built  Roman  villas  in  our 
northern  climates,  and  feudal  towers  amidst  our  modern  security.  Paint- 
ers travelled  to  imitate  local  colouring,  and  studied  to  reproduce  moral 
colouring.  Every  one  became  a  tourist  and  an  archaeologist;  the  human 
mind,  quitting  its  individual  sentiments  to  adopt  sentiments  really  felt, 
and  finally  all  possible  sentiments,  found  its  pattern  in  the  great  Goethe, 
who  by  his  Tasso,  Iphigenia,  Divan,  his  second  part  of  Faust,  became  a 
citizen  of  all  nations  and  a  contemporary  of  all  ages,  seemed  to  live  at 
pleasure  at  every  point  of  time  and  place,  and  gave  an  idea  of  universal 
mind.  Yet  this  literature,  as  it  approached  perfection,  approached  its 
limit,  and  was  only  developed  in  order  to  die.  Men  did  comprehend 
at  last  that  attempted  resurrections  are  always  incomplete,  that  every 
imitation  is  only  an  imitation,  that  the  modern  accent  infallibly  pene- 
trates the  words  which  we  lend  to  antique  characters,  that  every  picture 
of  manners  must  be  indigenous  and  contemporaneous,  and  that  archaic 
literature  is  a  false  kind.  They  saw  at  last  that  it  is  in  the  writers  of 
the  past  that  we  must  seek  the  portraiture  of  the  past;  that  there  are 
no  Greek  tragedies  but  the  Greek  tragedies;  that  the  concocted  novel 
must  give  place  to  authentic  memoirs,  as  the  fabricated  ballad  to  the 
spontaneous;  in  short,  that  historical  literature  must  vanish  and  become 
transformed  into  criticism  and  history,  that  is,  into  exposition  and  com- 
mentary of  documents. 

In  the  excitements  attendant  on  the  Franco-Prussian 
struggle  and  the  establishment  of  the  Republic  LEON  GAM- 
BETTA  (1838-1882)  showed  powerful  oratorical  ability. 

The  theater  in  France  never  fails  to  be  an  exponent  of  the 
times  and  the  drama  produced  after  1850  is  illustrative  of 
this  generally  conceded  truth.  £MILE  AUGIER  (1820-1889) 
followed  Scribe  and  showed  the  realistic  influence  in  his 
analysis  of  the  faults  and  foibles  of  the  bourgeois.  ALEX- 
ANDRE  DUMAS  the  younger,  (1824-1895),  painted  with  a 
heavier  brush  the  sins  not  so  much  of  individuals  as  of  so- 
ciety, especially  in  its  attitude  toward  problems  arising  from 


THE  CENTURY  OF  1NVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  357 

the  relations  of  the  sexes.  Even  more  than  Augier  and  Dumas 
the  younger  has  VICTORIEN  SARDOU  (1831-1908)  provided 
the  theater  of  other  nations  with  plots  and  ideas  for  incidents 
and  situations  and  above  all  with  standards  for  the  details  of 
dramatic  technique.  His  plays  have  had  a  joyous  popu- 
larity. They  include  various  forms  of  comedy,  possibly  the 
best  being  that  based  on  some  historical  happening. 

All  three  of  these  playwrights  are  realists.  Naturalism  is 
too  realistic  for  the  stage;  visualization  is  a  degree  beyond 
its  audacity.  In  verse,  however,  an  intellectual  naturalism 
appeared  with  CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE  (1821-1867)  who 
wrote  with  exquisite  though  misplaced  art  about  death  and 
physical  decay,  who  solaced  an  artificial  weariness  by  artificial 
stimulation,  and  who  looked  upon  himself  and  his  experiences, 
however  lurid,  with  detached  and  languid  interest  as  "good 
copy."  The  worst  elements  of  the  English  aesthetic  school 
of  the  early  '8os  whose  simpler  sillinesses  Gilbert  and  Sullivan 
satirized  in  "Patience"  had  their  roots  in  admiration  of 
Baudelaire,  and  in  France  the  Decadents,  with  inflamed 
imagination  and  atrophied  conscience,  honestly  earned  their 
debased  name  as  his  successors.  The  lingering  sweetness  of 
Baudelaire's  verse  and  its  possibilities,  all  too  grossly  per- 
verted, are  shown  in  this  poem. 

CONTEMPLATION 

(Translated  by  F.  P.  Sturm.    Courtesy  of  the  Walter  Scott  Publishing  Company) 

Thou,  O  my  Grief,  be  wise  and  tranquil  still, 
The  eve  is  thine  which  even  now  drops  down, 
To  carry  peace  or  care  to  human  will, 
And  in  a  misty  veil  enfolds  the  town. 

While  the  vile  mortals  of  the  multitude, 
By  pleasure,  cruel  tormentor,  goaded  on, 
Gather  remorseful  blossoms  in  light  mood — 
Grief,  place  thy  hand  in  mine,  let  us  be  gone 


358  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

Far  from  them.     Lo,  see  how  the  vanished  years, 
In  robes  outworn  lean  over  heaven's  rim; 
And  from  the  water,  smiling  through  her  tears, 
Remorse  arises,  and  the  sun  grows  dim; 
And  in  the  east,  her  long  shroud  trailing  light, 
List,  O  my  grief,  the  gentle  steps  of  Night. 

FRANCOIS  COPPEE  (1842-1908),  dramatist  and  poet,  was  a 
realist  pure  and  simple,  with  charming  poems  of  simple, 
country  life.  Not  so  PAUL  VERLAINE  (1844-1896),  his  con- 
temporary, who  was  a  true  disciple  of  Baudelaire,  a  real 
genius,  but  distorted  by  a  neurotic  temperament  and  by  the 
physical  reaction  of  a  body  harassed  by  the  degenerating 
power  of  absinthe.  At  first  a  friend  of  the  Parnassians  who 
admired  his  ability,  he  grew  far  away  from  their  mental  pre- 
cisions in  his  own  insistence  upon  grief  and  despair  and  sin 
and  his  own  mental  enjoyment  of  it.  The  poems  below  show 
Verlaine  in  the  sadness  with  which  he  describes  Autumn's 
decay  and  in  the  malice  of  his  comparison  of 

THE  WOMAN  AND   THE  CAT 

(Translated  by  Ashmore  Wingate.    Courtesy  of  the  Walter  Scott  Publishing  Company) 

O  she  was  playing  with  her  cat, 
And  it  was  wonderful  to  see 
The  hand  so  white,  the  paw  so  white, 
Meet  in  the  dusk  full  shadowy. 

The  cat  did  hide,  right  treacherous, 
Beneath  her  gloves  of  jet-black  sheen 
Her  deadly,  deadly  agate  points, 
As  razor  clear,  as  razor  keen. 

And  tender  too  the  other  grew 

Her  lance,  her  lance  she  hid  from  view. 

But  busy  was  the  devil  there, 
The  boudoir,  where  so  sonorous 
Her  airy  laugh  did  ring,  was  lit 
By  four  bright  stars  of  phosphorus. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  359 

SONG  OF  AUTUMN 
(Translated  by  Ashmors  Wingate.    Courtesy  of  the  Walter  Scott  Publishing  Company) 

The  wailing  note 
That  long  doth  float 

From  Autumn's  bow, 
Doth  wound  my  heart 
With  no  quick  smart, 

But  dull  and  slow. 

In  breathless  pain, 
I  hear  again 

The  hour  ring  deep. 
I  call  once  more 
The  days  of  yore, 

And  then  I  weep. 

I  drift  afar 

On  winds  which  bear 

My  soul  in  grief. 
Their  evil  force 
Deflects  its  course, 

Like  a  dead  leaf. 

Beside  decadence  there  have  been  other  literary  moods 
since  1880,  the  result  of  a  profound  mental  restlessness  suc- 
ceeding, with  the  quieter  days  of  the  Republic,  the  political 
agitations  of  the  'yos,  and  of  an  equally  profound  curiosity. 
The  chief  of  these  moods  is  symbolism,  a  reaction  into  vague 
rhetoric  from  the  plain  speaking  of  decadence.  The  move- 
ment brought  only  dimness  to  the  brilliance  of  French 
letters. 

Drama  of  real  value  has  been  of  late  combined  with  poetry 
of  worth  in  the  plays  of  EDMOND  ROSTAND  (1868-  ) 
and  of  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK  (1862-  ).  The  latter, 
however,  is  a  Belgian,  so  that  strictly  his  work  is  not  included 
in  the  body  of  French  literature,  though  he  writes  in  French. 
Rostand  struck  a  note  of  originality  and  charm  in  "  Cyrano 
de  Bergerac,"  a  drama  of  action,  full  of  humor  and  pathos, 


360  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

expressed  in  free  and  adequate  verse.  Of  his  succeeding 
plays  "L'Aiglon"  was  rather  heavily  pathetic,  and  "Chan- 
ticler"  a  daring  revival  of  mediaeval  method  which  uttered 
wisdom  through  the  mouths  of  birds  and  beasts,  was  too  full 
of  subtle  political  and  literary  localisms  to  be  readily  en- 
joyed "by  the  general." 

A  natural  progression  of  the  realistic  novel  was  its  growth 
on  the  psychological  side  as  the  naturalistic  aspects  fell 
away  from  their  own  grossness.  Its  chief  employers  were 
PAUL  BOURGET  (1852-  )  and  EDOUARD  ROD.  Bourget's 
work  is  too  analytical  of  trifles  to  be  powerful,  but  he  never- 
theless is  liked  by  the  class  of  people  whom  he  describes. 
His  travels  are  written  with  good  sense  and  good  temper  but, 
if  his  comments  on  other  countries  are  like  those  on  America, 
they  show  more  observation  than  insight.  His  notes  on 
American  humorous  journalism  are  entertaining. 

I  have  just  looked  over  a  very  great  number  of  humorous  journals 
which  my  New  York  friends  pointed  out  to  me  as  the  best.  Americans 
are  wild  over  these  publications.  They  are  displayed  in  all  the  hotel 
halls.  They  are  distributed  in  all  the  railroad  cars.  They  encumber 
the  tables  at  the  Clubs.  Without  exaggerating  the  importance  of  these 
illustrated  treatises  one  must  recognize  in  them  everywhere  a  certain 
documentary  value.  They  characterize  the  humor  of  the  race  and  the 
jesting  they  take  pleasure  in.  Moreover  you  will  meet  in  them  a  thou- 
sand details  of  manners  noted  in  a  lively  way  which  this  exaggeration 
makes  more  noticeable  to  the  traveller.  In  running  through  a  collection 
of  these  medleys,  one  foremost  observation  must  be  noted;  the  absence 
of  allusions  to  marital  misadventure.  Don't  suppose,  however,  that 
these  caricatures  profess  any  too  great  respect  in  regard  to  marriage; 
but  though  they  see  its  faults,  it  is  above  all  from  a  monetary  standpoint 
as  is  suitable  in  the  country  of  the  almighty  dollar.  Family  life  is  too 
dear  and  men  are  put  to  too  much  trouble.  Such  is  their  principal 
grief.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  .  "Your  men  work  too  hard  in  America,"  said  a  young 
foreign  count  to  a  young  girl. — "Yes,"  she  replies,  "they  have  to  sup- 
port their  titled  relatives."  When  it  is  not  the  father  who  is  over- 
whelmed with  trouble  it  is  the  husband.  Imagine  on  Christmas  eve  a 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH  361 

certain  Popleigh  returning  from  his  office.  He  is  aged  before  his  time, 
thin  and  bent.  His  arms  full  of  presents  reveal  his  numerous  family. 
A  gentleman  snug  in  comfortable  furs,  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  meets  him 
and  looks  at  him  ironically.  "It  is  Mr.  Singleton,"  says  the  legend 
simply,  "who  was  a  suitor  for  the  hand  of  the  present  Mrs.  Pop- 
leigh." .  .  .  As  to  the  happiness  of  the  wife,  she  herself  scarcely 
expects  it.  "Yes,"  replies  a  fianc6e,  her  eyes  upraised.  "I  am  happy. 
At  least,  I  suppose  so.  But  there's  one  great  trouble:  once  married  I 
shall  no  longer  be  able  to  flirt." 

This  jest  is  but  a  commentary  on  a  very  real  fact  which  I  shall  at- 
tempt to  explain,  the  social  sovereignty  of  the  young  girl  in  the  United 
States.  A  thousand  little  signs  would  scarcely  indicate  this  sovereignty 
to  the  traveller  until  he  finds  testimony  in  these  caricatures.  .  .  . 
Listen  to  the  conversation  that  the  artist  gives  these  admirable  persons 
and  you  will  be  edified  with  their  common  sense.  Here  is  a  girl  who  is 
walking  in  the  country  with  a  sweetheart  who  is  saying  to  her  bitterly: 
"If  I  were  rich,  you  would  marry  me  at  once!"  "Ah!  George,  George," 
says  she,  "the  devotion  you  show  me  breaks  my  heart."  "What  do 
you  mean  by  that!"  "That  you  have  often  praised  my  beauty  but 
until  now  I  did  not  know  how  much  you  appreciated  my  good  sense." 
They  know  well,  do  these  positive  daughters  of  still  more  positive  men 
that  marriage  is  an  association  where  their  partner  will  demand  that 
they,  too,  bring  money — lots  of  money.  .  .  .  Moreover  the  fine 
young  men,  companions  and  accomplices  in  the  flirtations  of  these 
pretty  children  do  not  conceal  from  them  their  care  for  this  interest. — 
"Had  I  been  poor,  would  you  have  loved  me?"  asks  one  of  them  of  a 
young  man  of  twenty-two  or  twenty-three  years  of  age,  who  replies 
while  pressing  her  to  his  heart:  "Ah!  darling,  I  should  not  have  known 
you."  And  you  must  not  be  indignant  at  seeing  money  ceaselessly 
mingled  in  affairs  of  the  heart;  the  heart  is  itself  so  little  mingled  in  it! 
The  caricaturist  takes  care  to  warn  you  of  it;  these  engagements  which 
are  tied  and  untied  with  such  ease  do  not  make  any  mark  on  the  souls 
of  the  two  elegant  fashionable  dolls,  the  young  man  and  young  woman 
of  the  world.  .  .  .  She  herself  does  not  attach  a  very  deep  meaning 
to  engagements,  if  we  believe  this  other  dialogue  between  two  young 
girls  who  are  exchanging  confidences:  "They  told  me  you  were  in  love 
with  him?"  asks  one.  "No,  indeed,"  replies  the  other  energetically, 
"it  is  not  so  serious  as  that.  I  was  only  engaged  to  him."  .  .  .  Lots 
of  fun,  that  is  the  best  summing  up  of  all  the  caricatures.  Nothing  re- 
sembles less  the  bitter  and  poignant  acidity  of  our  humorists.  These 
jokes  about  young  girls,  which  might  easily  be  cruel,  maintain  a  jovial 


362  THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRENCH  LETTERS 

good  humor.  It  is  the  same  for  those  on  the  subject  of  the  lower  classes, 
notably  the  tramps,  negroes,  and  Irish,  those  inevitable  protagonists  of 
every  true  Yankee  farce.  Certainly  misery  is  more  severe  in  the  United 
States  than  elsewhere,  under  a  climate  so  hard  in  winter,  so  burning  in 
summer  and  in  the  midst  of  such  crazing  competition.  Listen  to  this 
vagabond  whom  a  piece  of  money  given  by  a  generous  passerby  per- 
mitted to  enter  a  bar.  He  is  before  the  free  lunch  table:  "Haven't  you 
eaten  enough?"  cries  the  proprietor  startled  at  seeing  the  ham,  salted 
fish,  buttered  bread  and  fried  oysters  disappear  into  the  gulf  of  his  rag- 
covered  stomach.  "Do  I  look  like  a  man  who  has  eaten  enough?" 
replied  the  tramp  snickering.  This  impertinent  pleasantry  gives  the 
tone  of  the  responses  attributed  by  the  caricaturist  to  these  ramblers. 

Nor  does  the  caricaturist  treat  of  the  disagreeable  and  miserable 
traits  of  the  negro.  He  is  vastly  amused  by  his  vanity  and  familiarity. 
He  pictures  one,  for  instance,  who  goes  to  his  master's  house  wearing 
a  checked  pair  of  trousers  of  the  same  stuff  as  his  master's  waistcoat. 
The  latter  says:  "I  told  you,  Tom,  not  to  wear  those  pantaloons  that  I 
gave  you  during  the  week  when  I  am  wearing  the  rest  of  the  suit." 
And  Tom  replies:  "Why,  Boss?  Are  you  afraid  that  we'll  be  taken  for 
twins?"  It  is  the  same  way  with  the  terrible  Irish,  so  bursting  with 
poetry  and  brutality,  with  patriotic  ardor  and  vindictive  rage,  with 
eloquence  and  drunkenness,  with  the  spirit  of  enterprise  and  of  disorder. 
It  is  only  the  drunkenness  and  disorder  that  the  caricatures  display. 
Now  they  ridicule  an  Irish  servant  saying  in  her  brogue  to  the  immigra- 
tion inspector  that  she  is  a  French  nurse:  "Oi'm  a  Frinch  nurse."  .  .  . 
Policemen  preside  over  this  carnival  of  tramps,  negroes,  and  Irish, 
Irish  themselves,  drinking  deep  and  striking  hard  with  "Take  that" 
accompanied  by  a  crack  on  the  head.  Not  a  tinge  of  bitterness  corrupts 
this  joviality.  .  .  .  Clearly  they  are  good-humored  people,  very 
lucid,  very  positive,  writing  and  drawing  for  readers  who  are  lucid, 
positive  and  good-humored.  .  .  .  The  American  belongs  to  a  world 
that  is  too  active,  too  much  in  a  hurry,  and  in  certain  respects  too 
healthy  for  poisonous  irony  to  be  met  there. 

It  is  interesting  to  compare  with  this  innocent  and  indulgent  gaiety 
of  the  caricature  of  manners  the  violence  of  political  caricatures.  These 
same  artists  who  are  simple,  careless  jesters  about  the  absurdities  or  the 
vices  of  daily  life,  when  it  is  a  question  of  party,  manifest  a  frenzy  of 
hatred  almost  unsurpassable.  The  appointment  of  an  ambassador 
who  does  not  suit  them,  the  adoption  of  a  bill  against  which  they  are 
making  a  campaign,  or  the  rejection  of  a  bill  which  they  are  supporting, 
a  hostile  candidacy,  a  high-sounding  speech,  give  them  opportunity  for 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH   363 

extravagant  charges  whose  severity  of  attack  contrasts  in  the  most 
unexpected  fashion  with  the  good  humor  of  the  sketches  of  manners. 
You  are  suddenly  aware  of  calumny  and  its  bitterness,  anger  and  its 
insults.  From  amused  and  easy  fancy  you  fall  into  low  and  brutal  at- 
tack— an  attack  with  no  wit  about  it,  which  does  not  hesitate  at  the 
most  grossly  insulting  personal  allusion.  It  seems  to  me  that  both 
phenomena  are  logical  and  that  it  agrees  with  what  may  be  seen  every- 
where as  peculiar  to  the  American.  In  the  ordinary  run  of  existence  he 
is  a  good  fellow,  amiable,  open,  easy-going.  As  soon  as  you  meet  him 
in  business  you  find  him  as  harsh  and  as  energetic  in  defense  of  his  in- 
terests and  in  the  conquest  of  yours  as  you  found  him  previously  affable 
and  generous.  A  minute  ago  he  was  amusing  himself;  now  he  is  fighting. 
Politics,  it  appears,  is  the  most  important  business  of  all  in  this  country 
where  every  triumph  of  a  party  puts  at  its  disposal  all  the  positions  and 
public  appointments.  It  is  a  matter  which  interests  not  a  few  ambitious 
men,  but  an  enormous  number  of  individuals  enrolled  under  the  re- 
publican or  the  democratic  banner.  Their  antipathies  must  be  satisfied, 
their  enthusiasm  stirred,  their  passions  satisfied.  .  .  .  They  ex- 
clude wit  by  virtue  of  the  celebrated  quip  of  Talleyrand's,  "Everything 
that  is  exaggerated  is  insignificant."  That  is  why  Americans  have  suc- 
ceeded in  the  caricature  of  manners  which  they  make  light  and  without 
hidden  meaning,  and  why  their  political  caricature  is,  without  excep- 
tion, mediocre. 

Rod,  who  came  to  America  a  few  years  ago  to  lecture  has 
a  refinement  of  moral  tone  that  is  pleasant  to  encounter. 

Quite  apart  from  any  other  novelists  is  PIERRE  LOTI,  a 
naval  officer  whose  real  name  is  Julian  Viaud  (1850-  ). 
He  has  found  his  place  in  romances  whose  charm  lies  not  so 
much  in  the  movement  of  the  story  as  in  its  setting  among 
scenes  which  the  author  knew  well  and  described  with  felicity. 
He  has,  moreover,  a  capacity  for  pathos  which  makes  the 
waiting  girl  of  the  "Iceland  Fisherman"  and  the  deserted 
little  Japanese  wife,  "Madame  Chrysanthemum"  beloved 
and  lamented. 

Another  novelist,  who  is  poet  and  critic  as  well,  is  ANATOLE 
THIBAULT  (1844-  )  whose  pen  name  is  ANATOLE  FRANCE. 
He  belonged  to  the  Parnassian  group.  His  novels  show  a 


364  THE  SPIRIT  OF   FRENCH  LETTERS 

wide  range  of  descriptive  power,  from  analysis  of  a  simple 
childlike  nature  to  the  complexities  of  ancient  religious  en- 
thusiasms and  the  subtleties  of  modern  fashionable  society. 
As  a  critic  France  is  more  agreeable  than  profound,  opposing 
the  deeper  methods  of  FERDINAND  BRUNETIERE  (1849-1907) 
who  objected  with  consistency  and  firmness  to  the  super- 
ficiality of  a  criticism  based  on  emotion  rather  than  law,  and 
to  the  low  basis  and  consequent  futility  of  literary  forms 
where  art  supersedes  morality.  Brunetiere  worked  with 
enthusiasm  a  general  field  of  which  Pelissier  has  developed  a 
section,  the  literature  of  the  nineteenth  century,  with  ad- 
mirable sanity. 

EMILE  FAGUET,  a  scholarly  critic  of  great  ability,  though 
given  to  the  excusable  fault  of  overpraising  French  activi- 
ties, has  summed  up  the  achievements  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury in  the  paragraphs  which  follow  : 

*  The  nineteenth  century  is,  together  with  the  seventeenth,  the  great- 
est literary  period  which  France  has  seen.  Between  these  two  ages  there 
are  endless  points  of  resemblance,  notwithstanding  their  many  differ- 
ences. They  are,  both  of  them,  centuries  great  in  philosophy,  in  poetry, 
and,  possibly  for  that  reason,  both  of  them  great  religious  centuries — 
religious  in  the  sense  that  religious  questions  have  been  considered  by 
both  to  be  of  the  first  importance  and  have  been  investigated  and  ex- 
plored by  both  in  every  possible  direction — and  both  centuries  reached 
the  highest  summits  of  thought  and  of  art.  .  .  .  These  are  the  two 
centuries  which  brought  to  France  the  greatest  honour  and  gave  her  the 
supremacy  among  nations. 

Considered  by  itself,  the  nineteenth  century  in  France  is  singularly 
great  by  reason  of  what  it  revived  and  what  it  created. 

It  revived  poetry  in  the  grand  style,  which  had  been  almost  forgotten 
and  misunderstood  for  more  than  a  hundred  years.  It  revived  eloquence, 
which,  though  it  had  actually  made  its  reappearance  in  Rousseau  and 
one  or  two  of  the  revolutionary  orators,  has  only  since  the  year  1815 
been  practised  by  any  considerable  number  of  men.  It  revived  comedy 
on  a  large  scale.  .  .  . 

•  Courtesy  of  Charles  Scribnsr's  Sons. 


THE  CENTURY  OF  INVENTIONS-THE  NINETEENTH   365 

The  nineteenth  century  actually  created  that  personal  poetry  in  which 
the  intimate  emotions  of  the  heart  find  expansion,  in  which  we  feel  the 
pulsation  of  the  heart  of  human  nature  itself  and  come  into  immediate 
contact  with  it.  ...  We  also  owe  to  the  nineteenth  century — I 
will  not  say  historic  drama  (for  this  is  but  another  name  for  tragedy, 
differing  from  it  purely  in  form),  but  certainly  historic  comedy,  which 
had  been  but  vaguely  sketched  in  some  tragi-comedies  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  ...  In  creating  the  drama  of  middle-class  life  the 
eighteenth  century  had  begun  the  completion  of  the  framework  neces- 
sary for  the  drama;  in  creating  historic  comedy  the  nineteenth  century 
put  the  final  touches. 

The  nineteenth  century  will  also  be  admitted  to  have  practically 
created  criticism,  which  up  to  that  time  had  rather  attempted  than 
achieved  existence.  .  .  . 

It  is  therefore  evident  that  the  literary  horizon  has  been  enlarged 
rather  than  contracted  during  the  nineteenth  century,  and  this  is  true 
from  almost  any  point  of  view.  There  is  every  reason  to  feel  hopeful. 
The  future  of  the  nation  is  important  in  a  different  way  from  the  future 
of  literature,  but  literature  has  been  through  all  the  ages  so  considerable 
an  element  in  the  greatness  of  France  that  we  must  rejoice  to  find  no 
signs  of  its  decline  among  us. 


CHAPTER  X 
TODAY 

A  LIST  of  noteworthy  French  writers  of  the  moment  reads 
very  much  like  any  similar  list  of  1900  except  that  it  is 
scantier.  Death  has  mowed  the  ranks  relentlessly  in  the  last 
half-dozen  years,  and  the  aspirants  for  the  vacant  places  are 
self-nominated  rather  than  called  by  popular  acclaim.  It  will 
require  another  decade  to  prove  which  of  these  volunteers 
will  have  won  his  shoulder  straps. 

At  the  moment,  too,  there  seem  to  be  no  new  impulses, 
unless  it  is  a  groping  toward  a  rather  self-conscious  idealism. 
The  chief  political  events  of  the  decade  have  been  the  Moroc- 
can dispute  with  Germany  and  the  dispersal  of  the  religious 
orders.  The  former  made  no  impress  on  letters;  the  latter 
will  not  show  in  any  change  of  educational  results  until  the 
present  generation  of  young  people  steps  into  the  world  of 
affairs.  Even  then  it  is  not  likely  that  literature  will  be  af- 
fected, for  the  religious  bodies  concerned  themselves  chiefly 
with  the  training  of  young  girls  and  of  small  children.  It  is 
possible  that  the  establishment  of  these  teachers  in  remote 
countries  where  they  are  building  up  missions  will  have  more 
effect  in  those  places  than  their  withdrawal  from  France  will 
have  at  home.  France's  educational  influence,  indeed,  is 
strong  in  many  countries  today  as  was  her  influence  on  man- 
ners throughout  the  Europe  of  Louis  XIV's  time. 

The  reaction  against  religion  is  regarded  as  being  political 
rather  than  social,  and  the  tone  of  literature  seems  to  bear 
out  this  assertion. 

Of  the  isms  that  ended  the  nineteenth  century  the  survivor 

366 


TODAY  367 

is  the  one  most  immediately  touching  society — the  feminist 
movement  corresponding  to  the  woman  suffrage  movement 
in  other  countries.  Marcel  Prevost  is  still  the  chief  exponent 
of  feminism. 

It  is  characteristic  of  the  trend  of  interest  of  the  time  that 
literature  reflects  the  general  attention  that  is  given  to  one 
form  or  another  of  science.  It  may  be  mental  science — for 
the  French  combine  emotionalism  with  an  intellectual  curi- 
osity about  it  which  makes  them  take  a  "cerebral"  delight 
in  psychology.  It  may  be  physical  science — for  the  nation 
is  developing  every  aspect  of  aviation  now  as  it  worked  out 
automobile  problems  ten  years  ago.  The  conquest  of  a  new 
element  is  not  only  broadening  the  imaginative  scope,  but 
is  adding  new  material  to  be  written  about  and  enlarging  and 
enriching  the  vocabulary.  The  scientific  interest  appears  not 
to  be  antagonistic  to  the  prevalent  idealism,  but  rather  to  be 
regarded  as  a  sort  of  introductory  materialization  of  the  ideal. 

Whether  the  output  of  the  next  ten  years  will  show  any 
continuity  with  the  admirable  work  of  the  still  writing  sur- 
vivors of  the  critics  and  novelists  and  poets  of  the  splendid 
nineteenth  century,  or  whether  it  will  develop  a  new  type 
and  a  new  mode  of  expression  is  a  matter  of  interest  to  every 
student  of  the  spirit  of  French  letters. 


INDEX 


Aboard,  53 
About,  Edmond,  344 
Academy,  French,  134 
Agnes  of  Navarre,  25 
Alembert,  Jean-le-Rond  d',  266 
American  Revolutionists,  271 
Amyot,  Jacques,  107 
Anne  of  Austria,  126 
Anne  of  England,  132,  133 
Ariosto,  22 
Aristotle,  205 
Arnauld,  Antoine,  167 
Arouet,  Francois  Marie,  237 
Aucassin  and  Nicolete,  29-38,  50 
Augier,  fimile,  356,  357 
Augustus,  Philip,  44,  53,  63 

B 

Bacon,  133,  252 
Bacon,  Roger,  53 
Baif,  Antoine  de,  no 
Balzac,  Jean  Guez  de,  177 
Balzac,  Honord  de,  335 
Banville,  Theodore  de,  339 
Basselin,  79 
Bastille,  271 

Baudelaire,  Charles,  357 
Bavaria,  Isabel  of,  71 
Bayle,  Pierre,  265 
Beaumarchais,  243 
Beiges,  Le  Maire  de,  107 
Bellay,  Joachim  du,  28,  no,  113 


Belleau,  Remi,  no,  114 
Benserade,  Isaac  de,  152,  153 
B6ranger,  Pierre  Jean  de,  318,  320, 

322 

Bergerac,  Cyrano  de,  150 
Beyle,  Henri,  331 
"Bibles,"  46 
Black  Prince,  65 
Boccaccio,  40 
Boileau-Despre'aus,  Nicholas,  154, 

187 

Boniface,  Pope,  64 
Born,  Bertrand  de,  19 
Bourdaloue,  Louis,  173,  182,  267 
Bourget,  Paul,  360 
Bossuet,  Jacques  Benigne,  172 
Brun,  Ecouchard  Le,  274 
BrunetiSre,  Ferdinand,  364 
Bruyere,  Jean  de  La,  180 
Bryce,  Ambassador,  318 
Buffon,  247 
Bunyan,  133 
Byron,  281,  288 


Caesar,  i 

Calpren&de,  La,  160,  182 
Calvin,  John,  87,  88,  89,  93 
Capet,  Hugh,  4,  44 
Caxton,  74 
Chansons  de  Geste,  6 
Chapman,  133 
Charlemagne,  2,  3,  4,  63 
Charles,  2,  4 


369 


37° 


INDEX 


Charles  I,  126 

Charles  II,  133 

Charles  IV,  64 

Charles  V,  71,  86 

Charles  VI,  70 

Charles  VII,  65,  73 

Charles  VIII,  74,  82 

Charles  IX,  88,  117 

Charles  X,  278 

Charles,  Duke  of  Orleans,  77,  79, 

80 

Charles  the  Fat,  4 
Chartier,  Alain,  75,  77 
Chateaubriand,  279,  281,  283,  284, 

3i3 

Chatrian,  344 
Chaucer,  40,  65,  71,  190 
Ch6nier,  Andre",  272,  273 
Chrestien  de  Troyes,  7 
Classicists,  299 
Colbert,  130 

Commynes,  Philippe  de,  82,  89 
Comte,  171 
"Conde",  Great,"  163 
Condorcet,  270 
Congreve,  133 
Copp6e,  Francois,  358 
Corneille,  134,  160,  187,  200,  202, 

204,  206,  299 
Cot,  P.  A.,  279 
Courts  of  Love,  22 
Cousin,  318 
Cr6billons,  235,  236 
Crusades,  21,  52,  53,  57 

D 

Daguerre,  326 
Daniel,  Arnaud,  22,  29 
Dante,  19,  22 
Danton,  274 
Dare,  Jeanne,  65 


Daudet,  Alphonse,  344 
Decadents,  357 
Deffand,  Marquise  du,  246 
Delavigne,  Casimir,  323 
Dejoinville.  82 
Descartes,  R6n6,  171 
Deschamps,  Eustache,  71,  72 
Desperiers,  Bonaventure,  106 
Desportes,  121 
Destouches,  235 
Diaz,  73 

Diderot,  Denis,  235,  265 
Dorat,  Jean,  no 
Dryden,  133 

Dudevant,  Madame,  324 
Dumas,  Alexander,  312 
Dumas,  Alexandre,  356 
Duns  Scotus,  53 

E 

Edward  III  (of  England),  64,  66 
Eleanor,  19 
Elizabeth,  Queen,  in 
Enclos,  Ninon  de  1',  164 
Encyclopedia,  265,  267 
Erckmann,  344 
Espinasse,  Julie  de  1',  246 
Evelyn,  133 


Fabliau,  39,  45 

Faguet,  Emile,  364 

Fayette,  Madame  de  la,  154,  164 

Fe'ne'lon,  255 

Flaubert,  Gustave,  341,  342 

Floral  Games,  22 

Fontaine,  Jean  de  la,  157,  163,  187 

Fontenelle,  180 

Fouquet,  157,  163,  182 

France,  Anatole,  363 

France,  lie  de,  3 


INDEX 


371 


Francis  I,  86,  88,  89,  93,  101,  107 

Francis  II,  88,  117 

Franklin,  253 

Franks,  i 

Froissart,  26,  66,  69,  70,  71,  82 

Fronde,  127 


Galvani,  253 

Gambetta,  Leon,  356 

Gaul,  i 

Gautier,  Thebphile,  299,  326 

Gazette  de  France,  134 

Gilbert,  357 

Goethe,  281 

Goncourt,  Edmond  and  Jules  de, 

343 

Cresset,  Jean-Baptiste-Louis,  235 
Grignan,  Marquis  de,  182 
Gringore,  Pierre,  81,  195 
Guizot,  Francois  Pierre  Guillaume, 


Gutenberg,  74 


H 


Halle,  Adam  de  la,  16,  189 

H61oise,  53 

Henrietta  Maria,  126 

Henry  II,  19,  88 

Henry  III,  88,  117 

Henry  IV  (of  Navarre),  89,  100, 

117,  119,  120,  124,  125,  126 
Herrick,  133 

Hdpital,  Michel  de  1',  88,  116 
Horace,  200 

Hugo,  Victor,  284,  298-312 
Humanist,  87,  89 
Hundred  Years  War,  65,  72 


James  I,  126 


James  II,  133 
Jodelle,  Etienne,  no,  113 
John,  King,  65,  66 
Joinville,  De,  57,  58 


Kant,  171 

Kock,  Paul  de,  344 


Lacordaire,  318 
LaFontaine,  39,  40,  129 
Lamartine,  Alphonse  de,  284,  288, 

3i5 

Lamennais,  318 
Language,  French,  1-3 
Langue  d'oc,  2 
Langue  d'oil,  3 
Laon,  4 

Law,  John,  226 
"legacies,"  46 
Leibnitz,  171,  252 
Linnaeus,  253 
Lisle,  Leconte  de,  338 
Lisle,  Rouget  de,  275 
Long,  Gautier  Le,  39 
Longueville,  Madame  de,  163 
Lorris,  Guillaume  de,  61,  62 
Lothair,  2,  4 
Loti,  Pierre,  363 
Louis,  74 

Louis  IX,  44,  57,  63 
Louis  XI,  73,  75,  82 
Louis  XII,  77 
Louis  XIII,  125,  126 
Louis  XIV,  126,  129,  130,  132, 157, 

163,  167,  226,  255 
Louis  XV,  178,  226,  241,  253,  255, 

271 

Louis  XVI,  126,  268 
Louis  XVIII,  278 


372 


INDEX 


Louis  the  German,  2,  4 
Louvois,  131 
Lovelace,  133 
Luther,  Martin,  87 

M 

Macaulay,  89 

Machault,  Guillaume  de,  24 
Maeterlinck,  Maurice,  359 
Maintenon,  Madame  de,  154,  163, 

179 

Maistre,  Joseph,  317 
Maistre,  Xavier,  317,  332 
Malebranche,  171 
Malherbe,  Francois  de,  122,  123, 

152 

Malot,  Hector,  344 
Margaret  of  Scotland,  75 
Marie  of  France,  46 
Marivaux,  232 
Marlborough,  Duke  of,  132 
Marmontel,  Jean  Francois,  267 
Marot,  Clement,  89,  107,  no,  232 
Martel,  Charles,  3 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  88,  in,  126 
Massillon,  Jean  Baptiste,  175,  267 
Maupassant,  Guy  de,  344,  345 
Mazarin,  126,  127,  129,  131,  151, 

226 

Medici,  Catharine  de,  88,  116,  117 
Medici,  Marie  de,  125 
Merimfie,  Prosper,  332 
Mendes,  Catulle,  340 
Meung,  Jean  de,  61,  62,  70 
Michelet,  Jules,  313,  314 
Milton,  133 
Mirabeau,  274 
"miracles,"  189 
Mistral,  Frederic,  287 
Moliere,  40,  135,  160,  187 
Montalembert,  318 


Montaigne,  87,  88,  89,  94,  100 
Montesquieu,  252,  255,  256,  258 
"  moralities,"  189 
Montpensier,    Mademoiselle    de, 

154 

Montreuil,  De,  182 
Mothe-F6n61on,    Francois    de   la, 

174 
Musset,  Alfred  de,  284,  289,  290, 

298,  334 
"mysteries,"  189 

N 

Nadaud,  Gustave,  324 
Nantes,  Edict  of,  89,  125,  132 
Napoleon,  278,  311,  316 
Napoleon  III,  312,  337 
National    Constituent    Assembly, 

271 

Navarre,  Marguerite  of,  117,  119 
Necker,  Madame,  247,  271,  279 
Nesle,  Blondel  de,  18,  19 
Newton,  252 


Ohnet,  Georges,  344 
Orange,  William  of,  132,  133 
Orleans,  Philip,  of,  226 
Ovid,  61 


Palissy,  116 
Paris,  4 

"Parnassians,"  337,  358 
Pascal,  Blaise,  167,  171 
Pathelin,  Lawyer,  195-199 
Pelissier,  364 
Pepys,  133 
Pestalozzi,  261 
Petrarch,  22 
Peyrols,  21 


INDEX 


373 


Philip,  63 

Philip  the  Fair,  64 

Philippe,  Louis,  278,  311 

Pierre,  Bernardin  de  St.,  278 

Piron,  Alexis,  235 

Pisan,  Christine  de,  70,  71 

PleMade,  200 

Port  Royal,  167,  170 

Prevost,  Abb6,  234,  243,  367 

Proudhon,  318 


Rabelais,  87,  89,  90 

Racan,  123 

Racine,  160,  187,  170 

Raleigh,  133 

Rambouillet,  Ang61ique  de,   164, 

182 
Rambouillet,  H6tel  de,  134,  152, 

246 

Raoul,  Comte  de  Soissone,  16 
Realism,  326 
Reformation,  87,  89,  195 
Regnier,  Mathurin,  121,  122 
Renaissance,  86,  87,  89,  195 
Renan,  Ernest,  335,  336 
Renard  the  Fox,  59,  50-52 
Retz,  Cardinal  de,  127,  178 
Revolution,  French,  275 
Richard  the  Lion  Hearted,  17,  18, 

19,  20,  21 

Richelieu,  125,  126,  133,  206 
Robert  II,  Count  of  Artois,  16 
Rochefoucauld,  Francois  de  la,  168, 

178 

Rod,  Edouard,  360,  363 
Roland,  247 
Roland,  Madame,  247 
Roland,  Song  of,  7-13 
Rollo  the  Northman,  4 
Romance  Language,  2 


Romanticism,  278,  289,  299,  314, 

325,  338 

Ronsard,  Pierre,  28,  89,  no,  in 
Rose,  Romance  of  the,  61,  62,  70, 

1 08 

Rostand,  Edmond,  150,  359 
Rousseau,  Jean  Baptiste,  228 
Rousseau,  Jean  Jacques,  244,  252, 

256»  259,  260,  261,  265,  266,  270, 

278 
Rutebeuf,  45,  189 


Sage,  Alain-Rene"  Le,  229,  232 
St.  Louis,  45,  53,  63 
St.  Simon,  178,  227 
Sainte-Beuve,    Charles   Augustin, 

204,  349 

Saint-Gelais,  Mellin  de,  105 
Saintine,  344 
Sales,  Francis  de,  100 
Sand,  George,  334 
Saracens,  3 

Sardou,  Victorien,  357 
Satire  Me"nipp6e,  119 
Scarron,  Paul,  154,  163 
Schiller,  281 
Scott,  281 

Scribe,  Eugene,  325,  356 
Scude"ry,    Mademoiselle   de,    163, 

164,  178 

Sedaine,  Michel  Jean,  274 
Segrais,  Jean  Regnauld  de,  153, 

164 

Se'vigne',  Madame  de,  163 
SeVigne1,  Marquise  de,  181 
Shakspere,  40,  133 
Sorbonne,  53,  74 
soties,  195 

Souvestre,  fimile,  344 
Spinoza,  171 


374 


INDEX 


Stael-Holstein,  Baron  de,  279 
Stael,  Madame  de,  247,  279,  280 
States  General,  64,  74,  86, 125,  271 
Stendhal,  331,  334 
Strasburg  Oath,  2,  4 
Stuart,  Mary,  322 
Suckling,  133 
Sue,  Eugene,  244 
Sullivan,  357 
Sully-Prudhomme,  338 
Swift,  Dean,  87 
Swinburne,  29,  80 


Taillefer,  7 

Taine,  Hippolyte,  355 

Tennyson,  7 

Theuriet,  Andre1,  344 

Thibault,  Anatole,  363 

Thibaut  IV,  King  of  Navarre,  15, 

16 

Thierry,  Augustin,  313 
Thiers,  Adolphe,  214,  315,  316 
Thyard,  Pontus  de,  no 
Tocqueville,  Alexis  de,  318 
Tours,  3 

troubadours,  14,  15 
trouveres,  7,  14,  15 
Turgot,  Anne-Robert-Jacques, 

268, 127 
Turoldus,  8 
Tyler,  Wat,  65 


U 

University,  53,  74 
Urte,  Honore1  d',  160 


Valois,  Marguerite  of,   101,   102, 

105,  106 

Verlaine,  Paul,  358 
Ventadour,  Bernard  de,  22 
Verne,  Jules,  344 
Verse  forms,  24-28 
Vaiud,  Julian,  363 
Vidal,  Pierre,  20 
Vigny,  Alfred  de,  284,  288,  298 
Villehardouin,  53,  82 
Villemain,  Abel,  318 
Villon,  25,  80 
Voiture,  Vincent,  152,  153 
Voltaire,  237,  244,  256,  257,  258 

W 

Wace,  7,  49 
Walpole,  Horace,  246 
Ward,  Mrs.  Humphrey,  246 
Werther,  288 
Wycherley,  133 
Wycliffe,  65 


"Ysopets,"  46 


Zola,  fimile,  342 


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Works  on  the  English  Language,  etc. 


The  Making  of  English 

By  HENRY  BRADLEY.  Its  special  aim  is  to  make  clear  the 
causes  to  which  are  due  the  excellencies  and  defects  of  the  Eng- 
lish language  as  a  method  of  expression. 

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Words  and  their  Ways  in  English  Speech 

By  JAMES  B.  GREENOUGH,  late  Professor  of  Latin,  Harvard 
University,  and  GEORGE  L.  KITTREDGE,  Professor  of  Eng- 
lish, Harvard  University.  Cloth,  izmo,  x  +  431  pages,  $1.10  net 

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narrative  or  descriptive  writing.  It  is  indispensable  to  every  stu- 
dent or  writer."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

Historical  Manual  of  English  Prosody 

By  GEORGE  SAINTSBURY,  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  English 
Literature  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  author  of  "  A  History 
of  English  Prosody  from  the  Twelfth  Century  to  the  Present  Day." 

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On  the  Study  of  Words 

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vised by  A.  L.  MAYHEW.  Cloth,  i6mo,  xix  +  307  pages,  $1.00  net 

The  Language  and  Metre  of  Chaucer 

Set  forth  by  BERNHARD  TENBRINK.  Revised  by  FRIEDRICH 
KLUGE.  Translated  by  M.  BENTINCK  SMITH. 

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Historical  Outlines  of  English  Accidence 

Comprising  chapters  on  the  History  and  Development  of  the  Lan- 
guage and  on  Word  Formation.  By  the  late  RICHARD  MOR- 
RIS. Revised  by  LEON  KELLNER  and  HENRY  BRADLEY. 

Cloth,  izmo,  xiii  +  463  pages,  $1.40  net 

Historical  Outlines  of  English  Syntax 

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Specimens  of  Modem  English  Literary 
Criticism 

By  W.  T.  BREWSTER 

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This  book  belongs  to  the  realm  of  rhetoric  rather  than  of  litera- 
ture or  literary  history.  It  aims  to  use  critical  writing  more 
completely  than  is  done  in  any  text-book  of  selections  as  an 
agent  in  rhetorical  study  and  intellectual  discipline.  The 
selections  cover  Leslie  Stephen,  Dr.  Johnson,  Macaulay,  Henry 
James,  Matthew  Arnold,  Shelley,  Coleridge,  and  others,  with 
many  notes  and  an  excellent  and  comprehensive  introduction. 

Studies  in  Structure  and  Style 

With  an  Introduction  by  GEORGE  RICE  CARPENTER,  Professor 
of  Rhetoric  and  English  Composition  in  Columbia  University. 

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The  author  has  used  rare  discrimination  in  selecting  the  essays 
which  he  discusses,  insisting  that  they  should  be  of  the  highest 
class  of  modem  literature  and  that  they  should  serve  as  models 
to  the  student.  The  analysis  of  structure  and  style  in  these 
volumes  is  most  able,  and  the  book  will  be  found  a  most  valu- 
able one  as  a  text  in  the  higher  institutions  of  learning. 

The  Development  of  the  English 
Novel 

By  WILBUR  L.  CROSS 

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based  upon  sound  scholarship.  Professor  Cross  has  mastered 
his  material,  and  his  presentation  is  not  only  logical  in  its  general 
classifications,  but  entirely  adequate  in  its  particulars.  For 
these  reasons  it  is  an  admirable  text-book,  and  the  student  will 
find,  besides  the  organic  treatment  of  the  whole,  a  basis  for  an 
exhaustive  study  of  independent  periods." — The  Washington 
Star. 


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Shakespearean  Tragedy  Second  Edition 

Lectures  on  Hamlet,  Othello,  King  Lear,  and  Macbeth 

By  A.  C.  BRADLEY,  LL.D.,  Litt.D.,  Professor  of  Poetry  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  Oxford. 

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The  Times,  London  :  — 

"  Nothing  has  been  written  for  many  years  that  has  done  so  much  as  these 
lectures  will  do  to  advance  the  understanding  and  the  appreciation  of  the 
greatest  things  in  Shakespeare's  greatest  plays.  .  .  .  One  may  well  doubt 
whether  in  the  whole  field  of  English  literary  criticism  anything  has  been 
written  in  the  last  twenty  years  more  luminous,  more  masterly,  more  pene- 
trating to  the  very  centre  of  its  subject." 


Shakespeare:  A  Critical  Study 

By  GEORGE  BRANDES,  Author  of  "  Main  Currents  of  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury Literature,"  etc.  Cloth.  8vo,  6go pages  and  index,  $2.60  net 

The  Athenaum,  London  :  — 

"  On  these  volumes  as  a  whole  we  can  bestow  hearty  praise  and  commen- 
dation. No  other  single  work  on  Shakespeare  includes  so  much,  and  so 
much  that  is  valuable.  Dr.  Brandes  is  a  good,  a  first-rate  '  all-round  man.' 
There  is  no  side  of  his  subject  which  he  neglects.  He  is  both  an  antiquary 
and  a  critic,  interested  in  the  smallest  details  of  biography,  and  also  taking 
broad  and  comprehensive  views  of  Shakespeare's  thought  and  style.  His 
book  is  in  its  way  encyclopaedic,  and  we  venture  to  say  that  there  are  few 
people  —  few  scholars  —  who  would  not  find  themselves  the  better  informed 
and  the  wiser  for  its  perusal.  He  has  equipped  himself  for  his  task  by  wide 
study  and  research  ;  and  on  all  the  materials  he  has  amassed  he  has  brought 
to  bear  a  judgment  well  balanced  and  vigorous,  and  a  mind  liberal  and  inde- 
pendent. It  is  many  years  since  there  has  been  any  contribution  to  Shake- 
spearean literature  of  such  importance  as  this.  These  two  volumes  are  of 
solid  worth,  and  deserve  a  place  in  every  Shakespearean  student's  library." 


Eighteenth  Century  Essays  on  Shakespeare 

Edited  by  D.  NICHOL  SMITH.  Cloth,  $3.00 

From  the  Editor's  Preface  :  — 

"  It  is  at  least  eighty  years  since  most  of  these  Essays  were  reprinted. 
Rowe's  Account  of  Shakespeare  is  given  in  its  original  and  complete  form  for 
the  first  time,  it  is  believed,  since  1714.  .  .  .  Dennis's  Essay  has  not  ap- 
peared since  the  author  republished  it  in  1721.  .  .  .  The  Nine  Essays  or 
Prefaces  here  reprinted  may  claim  to  represent  the  chief  phases  of  Shake- 
spearean study  from  the  days  of  Dryden  to  those  of  Coleridge.  The  Intro- 
duction has  been  planned  to  show  the  main  lines  in  the  development  of 
Shakespeare's  reputation,  and  to  prove  that  the  new  criticism,  which  is  said 
to  begin  with  Coleridge,  takes  its  rise  as  early  as  the  third  quarter  of  the 
eighteenth  century." 


The  Development  of  Shakespeare  as  a  Dramatist 

By  GEORGE  PIERCE  BAKER,  Professor  of  English  in  Harvard  Uni- 
versity. Cloth,  crown 8vo,  %ajoonet;  oy  mail,  $2.15 

The  book  endeavors  to  fill  a  gap  in  the  discussion  of  Shakespeare's  art  by 
distinguishing  his  debt  as  a  dramatic  writer  to  his  predecessors  or  contem- 
poraries, indicating  his  contribution  to  each  of  the  varied  forms,  chronicle, 
play,  farce,  melodrama,  comedy  of  manners,  high  comedy,  and  tragedy. 
Professor  Baker  has  made  clear  the  interesting  progress  of  the  dramatist 
toward  the  mastery  of  his  art,  and  has  illustrated  the  work  with  views  of 
London  and  of  the  life  of  the  theatre  in  Shakespeare's  day. 

What  is  Shakespeare? 

An  Introduction  to  the  Great  Plays 

By  L.  A.  SHERMAN.  Professor  of  English  Literature  in  the  University 
of  Nebraska.  Cloth,  large izmo,  xii  +  414 pp.,  $i.oontt 

Short  Sketches  of  Shakespeare's  Plots 

By  CYRIL  RANSOME,  Professor  of  Modern  Literature  and  History  in 
the  Yorkshire  College  of  the  Victoria  University. 

Cloth,  i2mo,  viii  +  v&pp .,  $f.oo  net 

Shakespeare's  Heroines 

By  ANNA  JAMESON.    With  twenty-six  portraits  of  famous  players  in 

character.  Cloth,  Svo,j^f  pp.,  $3.00 

The  same  without  the  illustrations.    Bonn  Library.    $i.oonet 

Shakespeare  in  Tale  and  Verse 

By  LOIS  G.  HUFFORD.  Cloth,  tamo,  ix  +  44spp.,  $1.00  net 

The  same.    Standard  School  Library.  $.50  rut 

Lamb's  Tales  from  Shakespeare 

By  CHARLES  and  MARY  LAMB.  Illustrated  by  Byam  Shaw.  $2.50 
The  same.  Eversley  Series.  $f.^o.  The  same.  Bohn  Library 
Edition.  $i.oonet. 

Pocket  Classics  Edition.  Edited  by  Canon  Ainger.  $.2j.  English 
Classics  Edition.  $.40.  Standard  School  Library.  £.50  net. 
Golden  Treasury  Series.  $/.oo. 

Characters  of  Shakespeare's  Plays 

By  WILLIAM  HAZLITT.  Cloth,  $1.50 

Shakespeare's  Songs  and  Sonnets 

Edited  by  FRANCIS  T.  PALGRAVE.    Golden  Treasury  Series.    $uoo 


Shakespeare  —  English  Men  of  Letters 

By  Professor  WALTER  RALEIGH. 

Blue  cloth,  gilt  tops,  75  cents  net ;  by  mail,  8$  cents 

PROFESSOR  DOWDEN  in  the  Nation :  — 

"  Professor  Raleigh  has  felt  over  again,  with  penetrative,  imaginative,  and 
fine  intelligence,  the  beauty  and  the  greatness  of  Shakespeare's  poetry  ;  he  has 
only  placed  these  in  their  proper  environment,  and  by  virtue  of  a  rare  charm 
of  style  enabled  us  to  see  with  his  eyes  a  most  harmonious  vision.  ...  A  wise 
and  beautiful  book." 

A  Life  of  William  Shakespeare     New  Edition  Revised 

By  SIDNEY  LEE,  Editor  of  the  "Dictionary  of  National  Biography." 

Cloth,  izmo,  445  pages  and  a  full  index,  $2.25  net 
The  Standard,  Chicago:  — 

"'  Monumentally  excellent"  was  the  expression  used  by  Mr.  Henry  A.  Clapp 
in  speaking  of  Mr.  Lee's  recent  publication.  Coming  from  such  a  source,  this 
is  high  praise  indeed,  but  the  reader  cannot  fail  to  find  it  justified." 

William  Shakespeare:  Poet,  Dramatist,  and  Man 

By  HAMILTON  W.  MABIE.  Illustrated,  $2.00  net 

Also  an  edition  without  illustrations,  uniform  with  the 
Ever s ley  Shakespeare,  $f.oo  net 

This  work  is  far  more  than  a  mere  life  of  the  poet.  Indeed,  it  is  conceived 
on  lines  so  broad  and  executed  in  a  spirit  so  generous  that  it  is  rather  an  inter- 
pretation than  a  record.  It  is  written  throughout  from  a  literary  standpoint 
and  stands  almost  alone  in  the  fidelity,  the  sanity,  and  the  candor  of  its  appre- 
ciations. 

A  History  of  English  Dramatic  Literature  to  the 
Death  of  Queen  Anne 

By  A.  W.  WARD.  Cloth,  $9.00  net. 

A  SUMMARY  OF  CONTENTS 

VOLUME  I — The  origins  of  the  English  Drama.  The  beginnings  of  the 
Regular  Drama.  Shakespeare's  Predecessors.  Shakespeare. 

VOLUME  II  — Shakespeare  (continued).  Ben  Jonson.  The  Later  Eliza- 
bethans. Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

VOLUME  III  —The  End  of  the  Old  Drama.    The  Later  Stuart  Drama. 


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